I’m Patricia. I’ve been a cat lover before Taylor Swift (who currently holds the title of Cat Lady Queen) or Grumpy Cat were even born. And I’d like to say that the cats I’ve cared for through the years found me, not the other way around. Here, they share their stories:
I was her first love, and we sure had a lot of fun. She was taking a photography course when we met, and I was her favorite subject. She used to put hats on me and laugh. I thought I looked pretty good. My favorite thing, back then, was the newspaper. I especially like the Sunday Times. I’d dive into it when it was on the couch, always looking for the sports section. I guess I was sort of a jock—a big, gray, striped tabby guy. We both thought I was in pretty good shape until one day she came home and I couldn’t walk. I don’t know what hit me. We went to the vet, and he said I had some kind of virus that couldn’t be fixed. I was really bummed about that because I didn’t want to leave, and I didn’t want to see her so sad. Boy, did she cry. We both did. I still miss her, and I know she misses me because she talks to my pictures all the time.
The day she walked in to the shelter, I almost jumped out of my fur. I was only eight weeks old but big for my age. I had black and white spots—very manly—and a fabulous smile. I was in this big box with a lot of annoying kittens, so I had to work really hard to get her attention. I kept jumping and jumping, and she finally noticed me. She picked me up, and I squeaked out “Hello, I love you, let’s run away together.” She took me home with another guy from the box. We had a great life together. My favorite activity was napping with her on Saturday afternoons. I’d stand at the top of the stairs and squeak (my meow came out like an eeeeeek) until she came up and cuddled with me—just the two of us. I always knew when it was 4 p.m. on a Saturday. It was quite a shock to both of us when I keeled over suddenly on a cold February day in 1990. When she came home and found me, she cried so loud you could hear it in the next town. It turns out I had a bad heart. I really hated leaving her but I’m still with her, and she talks to my pictures all the time, too.
I was also at the shelter that day she picked the black and white one. Even though I was a little on the small side for a kitten, I was fast on my feet and really smart. I pushed myself to the front of that box and crawled up the wall until I got to eye level and she’d pick me, too. I didn’t care if I had to share her with the other one—I knew I was special, and I wanted to go home with her. I could do all kinds of amazing tricks, like jump up on top of a door and swing my paw down to get a little sock she hung there for me. I’d jump down with it in my teeth and drop it at her feet and we would do it again…and again…and again. My other favorite game was soccer, which I played with a champagne cork. I could bat that cork around for hours. As I got older, I slowed down a little, bit but I still liked being in the game. You know what I mean, right? When I got more aches and pains and problems and had to cross over that bridge, it was the middle of the night in a big cold emergency room. She never would go back there again, and she cried for a long time. I did too. She talks to all of my pictures, too. We’re still together…in a way.
First off, let me say—I was by far the funniest cat she ever had. I was Mr. Personality. I was a big orange and white guy, and we’re known for our social skills. Mine were the best. I could’ve been a greeter at Walmart—I’d greet everybody at the door with a nice meow and smile. My life was picture-perfect. Here I was out in the Hamptons with my sister, dumped on a tennis court, and along she comes. We were in what you would call temporary housing, and we were definitely not interested in being transferred to that shelter—even though it is as good it gets. So off we went to New York City, where I reigned for 16 fantastic years. One really bad piece of luck hit me in my later years when I had to get some dental work done. The doc who operated on me kept my mouth open too long, pulled too many teeth, and my jaw broke. My smile got all crooked, and it was hard for me to eat. For a guy who really enjoyed food, that was a huge pain. Literally. But eventually my jaw straightened out, and much to everyone’s surprise, I got back to my old self. As I got older though, I had more problems—thyroid issues and asthma—oy — and I had to go to the hospital with all the gorgeous lady doctors. Finally, I told her it was time for me to cross over the bridge, and she held me while the doc gave me the shot. Her’s was the last face I saw. She talks to me all the time and pets the box I’m in. I’m still in New York City, and I can still make her laugh.
Like the song goes, I’m still here—and I sure am. I am her absolute favorite female cat…ever. Not only am I smart and unusually beautiful—I have one blue eye and one green eye—I am a very interesting, kind, gentle, and personable kitty. Oh, I’ve had my aches and pains, but I can still jump pretty high and get some laughs from her. In my younger days, I liked to get spun around in a paper bag and slide down the hallway sideways. She’s always making up little lullabies for me. I especially love the “Nelly Girl is a Special Pearl” number. When my brother Riley was alive, he had his own songs, too—all custom jobs. I have become a real princess around here even though I eat senior food. Ugh. But I’m still here, and life is good.
Have a story you want to share? Email us at firstname.lastname@example.org.