The prodigal cat

Cat people are a very different kind of people. The rest of the world just doesn't understand. I am a cat person, and I automatically bond with other cat people. It's our thing. James' parents aren't cat people. However, somehow, when a smallish tabby striped cat showed up on their porch, something must have called to them. Perhaps it was the gaping rancid wound in his side.

Enter, Tiggers. Tigger was a stray. He is quite a fighter and has no concept of his own size, which is probably how he ended up with the wound. James' mom is a nurse, and I am pretty sure at some point in a nurse's career they are forced to take an oath to save lives. So Tigger had found the right porch to curl up and die on.

Much to their chagrin, they drug the dying cat into the house. James' mom pumped him full of antibiotics and started to take a look at the wound on his side. The puncture hole was so deep that the cat was literally shitting out of his side. An open wound is bad enough, but one that cuts through intestines and is constantly in contact with fecal matter is a whole new problem.

She kept the wound clean, kept him on antibiotics, and nursed him back to health. After he had finally started to heal, he had already earned his spot on their porch.

Once he was all better he was back out in the great outdoors. Tigger is a hunter. He constantly was leaving dead animals on the porch as gifts of thanks for them. There is not a day that I have come to the house without having to step over a small pile of guts left over from whatever poor creature fell victim to his claws.

His hunting won them over. The constant flow of decapitated birds and mice had stolen their hearts. Slowly, he was allowed into the house, but "just when it's cold outside" or "just when there's been coyotes in the yard"... you get the idea.

One day, James and I headed out to the farm. When we showed up we were in for a surprise. A petite little cat hovered around three tiny little kittens on the porch. Kittens are my kryptonite. I turn into mush and can no longer speak. My words just come out as tiny squeals and I just want to hold the kitten by my face and rub them, smell them, and kiss them.

There they were... the momma and babies. Turns out Tigger was leading a double life. He would sneak into the house at night and sleep with his human family, but during the day he was romancing his lady friend. We all know how kittens are made... naughty Tiggers.

James' mom couldn't just leave the little defenseless kittens outside every night. Their momma was doing a great job watching over them, but after one of them fell in the well, they were kept inside... "but only at nighttime".

Real men wear cats.

Slowly, the kittens grew. Tiggers had grown, too. He was hefty. Not a giant cat, like Marshall the toilet cat (I'll tell you about him another day), but probably a solid 20 pounds. He was an even greater hunter now. James and his dad had gone hunting turkeys one day. They crouched down around trees near a flock of the birds, quietly waiting for the time when they were close enough to take aim... Suddenly, out of the tree above the birds, the giant cat leaped down, almost directly on top of one of the huge birds. He attacked from above. I bet those stupid birds never even saw him coming.  Tiggers didn't catch his turkeys, and because of his failed attempt, neither did the men.

The dead animal presents keep coming, though, and "only at night" has turned into all the time. Tiggers runs the house, now. He comes and goes as he pleases. The momma and kittens keep the gifts coming now, and Tigger lays around. He has ditched hunting in turn for begging, as it has a much greater rate of return.

I personally believe all men are a lot
sexier when holding cats.

He will wait until everyone sits around the table and stretch his giant front paws up to the table and wail. I'll watch as he takes his turn working his way around the table to each person... as each person slyly slips him pieces of meat. He has learned to work it, for sure.

King of this castle.

Tigger will leave for days at a time, now. Off on an adventure, no doubt. But he always comes home. Sometimes with new scratches and cuts that need doctoring, and sometimes with whole dead woodpeckers.

He burps. His cat farts clear a room, and smell remarkably like I would imagine a 400 pound man who has just eaten Taco Bell smells. He lays around the house when he is home and waits for someone to feed him. He takes over the couch or chair, and will often kick Momma Cat or the kittens out of his spot, or out of their spot if it is warmer. He demands attention when you he enters the house and will scowl at you if you ignore him.

Ain't this the life?

The moral of the story, guys, is that if you aren't a cat person... watch out. You can always be converted. All it takes is a little stripey cat shitting out of his side and a few dead birds to transform you into the crazy cat person. One cat turns into two... two turns into three... three turns into "Oh my God, Mr. Whiskers has the hiccups!" Weeeee!

**Side note - all cats have been spayed/neutered, with special thanks given to the Snip Clinic!