Now I Know Why Cats Have 9 Lives

     I love cats. I always have, beginning with Blackie, the black and white tuxedo shorthair that we had in Miami in the early 1960s until he was hit by a car some years later when we lived in the country south of St. Louis.
     When I was in high school, we took in a too-young-to-be-weaned kitten that had to be hand fed. We didn't know that cats don't have a good swallowing reflex, so spooning milk down its throat was as good as trying to drown him. Maybe that's why he turned out to be so aggressive, attacking my youngest sister at night in her bed. Tiki made the move with the family to Chicago and regularly climbed a tree in the backyard to the roof of the parsonage and then down to the bedroom window on the second floor, asking to be let in. Unfortunately, it was Patti's bedroom and she was not a fan of that cat...
     After I finished college, I had three cats at one time. Sammy, a sweet female calico; Smokey, a beautiful gray male that I couldn't resist buying from a pet shop, and Yoda, a pure white male rescued from a family across the street. They allowed their toddler to try to drown that cat in the kiddy pool; I think it suffered some brain damage.
     Although I lost Sammy and Smokey in a custody battle, Yoda was soon joined by Cassie, a shy tortoise-shell longhair. They both moved with me to Pittsburgh in the early 1980s, but after Bill and I moved into our first house, we had to relinquish Yoda to Animal Friends. He had decided that the dining room was better than his litter box or the backyard.

     Cassie moved four more times with us and lived to nearly 20 years old. I was crushed when we had to put her down but her kidneys had started to fail. During the last five years with Cassie, we inherited Charles, another shorthair tuxedo who came with the townhouse we bought in Bradfordwoods, Pennsylvania.
     Charles was supposedly feral, but after surviving a severe infection brought on by eating an infected bird, he became quite domesticated, spending winter nights indoors with us. During his time with us, we acquired Cosmo (named after Kramer on Seinfeld) from a co-worker. Cosmo was a big boy; 22 pounds of long white fluff, but somewhat reclusive. The ring of the doorbell was enough to send him tearing up the stairs to hid under the bed. After Charles developed a huge tumor above his right eye, and kept scratching it open, the vet recommended he be put down. We think he was about 12. Within a few months, another stray showed up on our doorstep. Ocie (short for O.C. or Outside Cat) was coal black and made a nice contrast to Cosmo. Bill was not thrilled and wanted me to take Ocie to Animal Friends after socializing him, but that cat won me over and was soon spending nights in the house.
     Unfortunately, when we made the decision to move to Florida and live on our boat, we didn't think either Cosmo or Ocie would acclimate very well and had to find homes for them. A co-worker saw Cosmo's photo in my office one day and claimed him on the spot. Ocie was a harder case. I wanted (hoped) the new owners of our townhouse would take him in, but failing that, a neighbor with five cats of her own said that she would care for Ocie but he couldn't join hers indoors. When we left our townhome for the last time, I left   a letter for the new owners and a big container of cat food, hoping they would love him too. And they did.
     So, in June 2011, I became cat-free for the first time in my life. It was traumatic!
     By January 2012 it was clear to Bill that I needed another cat so we went to an animal adoption clinic at a local PetSmart and found Alfie. Although I had never really liked orange cats, Bill was drawn to this one despite its shyness.
     I've chronicled Alfie's bouts with chronic urinary tract infection and the frustration of trying to clear that up. Finally after eight months of rounds of antibiotics I decided to try cranberry powder and water therapy (a couple of syringes of water a day). That did the trick. Alfie started to settle down, gain weight...and bite.
     Yes, unfortunately, he has decided he's the dominant being in this household and has become quite aggressive. Last night he bit Bill hard enough to draw blood. I think Alfie is down to his fifth life. He better straighten out or he'll spend the last four in an animal shelter again. So far a water pistol seems to be the solution...