Cat Musings: Seven Cats, Seven Stories

For my cat-loving friends, it's been a long time since I've written about my fur babies. As you can imagine, a great deal has happened in the months — or has it been more than a year? — since I last wrote about any of them. For those who are interested, Meet My Cats:

• Sophie

• Samson

• André

• Eli

• Josephine

• Fynn

• Sadie

Sophie — The Lovable Diva

Like all my cats, Sophie was a rescue from my first stint as a manager at the Navarre Supercenter. It must have been around 2008. One of our associates posted a notice on our bulletin board that she would be moving to California and could not take her three-year-old cat. After several days, no one had responded with interest.

My heart went out to the pretty cat in the picture, and once I saw her sweet eyes and calm demeanor, of course, I decided to take her.

Sophie was an endearing cat who adored people and wanted you to pet her — all the time. At first it was no big deal. She would sit next to me as I extended my hand to stroke her soft fur, and her mysterious little purr-motor would crank up. If I stopped, within a minute or two she would reach out with her paw and "tap-tap" on my arm until I resumed stroking her. It was a very lovable trait — kind of like a toddler pulling on your sleeve and screeching "Mama!" over and over again while you try to carry on a conversation with another adult — just without the screeching.

“Sophie was persistent, never demanding. She always knew how to make herself heard.”

As the years passed, like many pets do, she developed arthritis in her joints. It made it difficult and painful for her to walk, and I took advantage of every option available to make her comfortable. I bought a set of stairs to make it easier for her to climb onto my bed. When she looked on longingly while Samson lapped water from the faucet, I would position the stairs next to my bathroom sink so she could climb up and indulge in the habit like she used to.

Sophie was a diva among the other cats. She tolerated very little from them, avoiding interactions and puff-puff-puffing through her nose at interlopers as she trotted quickly away from any unwelcome attention. They left her alone, I think, because they recognized her seniority and respected it, just as they did the others in the hierarchy that existed within the clowder.

As she grew old, I began to wonder if she might make it to 25 or 30, but a few months ago, she began to slow down even more. She slept most of the time and rarely came to John or me to tap on our arms for strokes. When she did, I nearly always picked her up gently and placed her on my chest as I reclined on the sofa, stroking her head and body as she snuggled against me purring contentedly. She was so loved, and I wanted her to know it.

Then one day, she didn't show up with the other cats at feeding time in the morning. She loved being outside on the catio, partly because cats love the outdoors and partly because it was warm out there compared to my air-conditioned townhouse. Sure enough, I found her curled up in one of the cat beds under a chair on the catio. When I opened the sliding glass door, she would raise her head at the sound and slowly get up to come in through the opening in the door, make her way to her bowl, and eat nearly all of the wet food she adored. That's how I knew she was still hanging in there, but I knew time was growing short.

Eventually, she didn't get up when I opened the sliding glass door. I set her bowl next to the bed under the chair in case she might be inclined to get up and eat, but she didn't. It was the same the next day and the next, until one evening I told John it was time.

I gently picked her up; she did not protest. I brought her to my bedroom upstairs and ran a warm bath for her. She had always loved water and was one of my cats that would beg for me to turn on the faucet in the sink or tub to a trickle so they could stand under or near it with their outstretched paw and lick the water as it spilled over their fur. I eased her body into the warm water and cupped her head in my hand. She was so very weak she didn't move. I gently massaged her and whispered to her. She would open her mouth as though to meow, but no sound would come out.

I wrapped her in a dry towel and rubbed her softly to dry her, then placed her in a blanket and set her in the big red chair next to my bed with a heating pad under her to keep her warm. It was bedtime, but I wasn't sleepy because I knew her time was short. I continued to talk to her, and she would attempt to answer but simply didn't have strength left in her body. At 9:39 on July 6, she breathed her last breath as I stroked her head.

It's so hard to lose a beloved pet. It was her time, and I am thankful she was at home in a safe, familiar place with the human that had cared for her for more than 17 years. Sophie’s quiet persistence and gentle ways reminded me that love doesn’t always have to be loud to be profound. She taught me the beauty of presence — of simply being there, paw on an arm, purr in the silence — and how to say goodbye with grace.

🌸 🐾 🌸

Samson — The Loyal Buddy

Of course, Sophie wasn’t the only one with a strong personality—Samson has his own way of leaving his mark, quite literally.

Did you know the number of cats you own is directly proportional to the percentage of spraying you will likely experience in your home? For example, if you own four cats, there is 40 percent chance that you will have to battle cat urine being sprayed around your home.

My veteran veterinarian shared that little tidbit of information on one of my visits. At the time, I had seven cats, and you didn't have to tell me some of them were spraying in my home. Two of them had the chutzpah to do it in front of me! This green-eyed black boy is one of them — diminutive yet once the undisputed alpha of the clowder.

Now, cats will spray for various reasons. Maybe they're unhappy with the condition of their litter box. Perhaps they sense an unfamiliar cat prowling around your home's exterior and are asserting their ownership of the territory. Among males, the hierarchy is very important, and they apparently feel that sometimes reminders in the way of the pungent, ammonia-laden particles deposited on doors, cabinets, curtains or furniture is necessary to keep everyone in his or her subordinate position. This is the explanation for Samson, I believe — Argh!

You may wonder why I would put up with such a thing. How did I tolerate the behavior, let alone manage to keep my house from smelling like a hoarder's nightmare?

For you dog lovers, how do you put up with the occasional accident on your floor or carpet? Or the wet mud tracked in on a rainy day? Or the flatulence and bad breath? With any pet, there are unpleasant and sometimes exasperating consequences. All of us have those family members or friends who are not "animal lovers" and who don't have pets. Yes, their houses are usually well kept and sanitary, but oh, we animal lovers know how much they are missing out.

Samson laser-focused on something he sees outside, completely ignoring the toy perched on his head.

Samson has special qualities that the others do not possess, at least not to the extent that he does. Samson is intuitive and moody. I have witnessed him acting indignant, excited, highly alert to his surroundings, sad, sullen, indifferent and aloof, and so very affectionate. He seems to sense human conditions and situations and respond to them in surprising ways.

For instance, in February and March of 2019, I was caring for my late husband, Roy, as he battled the recurrence of the stomach cancer that nearly took his life 18 years before. This time, we knew he would lose the battle. Somehow, I believe that Samson knew it too. The last several days of Roy's life, Samson climbed under the covers of the bed and curled up next to him, coming out only to eat and use the litter box. He was content to be there with Roy, and even though my husband was probably unaware of his presence, it brought me a measure of comfort to see the small, warm lump under the covers next to him.

"Samson knows when I need comfort, and he never fails me."

He's the most affectionate of my cats by far. He loves human contact and has never hissed, scratched, or struck out at anyone out of fear or rage. He grows depressed when I leave on extended trips. My son and my cousin who have stayed at my home during those times attest to it. At night he often sleeps as close to my face as he can get, and he rolls his sleek body into a pretzel shape so I can scratch under his chin and on his belly.

Samson doesn't often purr, but when he does, it can sound either hushed and soft or intense and robust — I believe, an expression of his satisfaction with life at that moment.

I mentioned that he would never injure a person with his teeth or claws, at least not with malice. But one of his faults is his lack of perception that those razor blades on the end of his cute, pink toe beans can easily slice or puncture a person's skin just by climbing across one's lap.

He more than makes up for this — at least as far as I'm concerned — with his companionship, affection, intelligence, and his loving personality.

If you haven't figured it out by now, he is my favorite of all my rescues. Yes, he pisses on my cabinets and doesn't understand that his claws can hurt even when he's not in fighting mode. I can clean up the cat pee sufficiently that neighbors and friends tell me they wouldn't know I had cats, and I keep a bottle of Bactine handy to spray on the occasional accidental scratch or puncture wound. He's well worth the extra effort, and I would never give him up in a million years. Samson shows me the depth of a cat’s intuition and the quiet strength of companionship. In his loyalty and affection, he reminds me that true love accepts flaws, forgives inconveniences, and finds joy in the everyday warmth of a shared life.

🌸 🐾 🌸

André — The Demanding Giant

André is as special as Samson, but in a very different way. If it's possible for a cat to be on the spectrum, André definitely is. When someone visits and sees him for the first time, they ooh and ahh over him because, well, he is a beautiful animal. He is huge, 20 lbs., solid white with amber eyes that lock on yours with a steady gaze when he wants your attention. He showed up in my neighborhood as a kitten some 12 years ago—a gangly, white ghost of a moggie that I couldn't imagine someone would have dumped, but after he hung around for several days and became acquainted with my dog, Kobe, I decided to take him in.

There began an odyssey with as unique a feline as I have ever encountered. He was not particularly affectionate, and he didn't really like to be handled, although he seemed to adore the heavy-handed "butt pats" my eldest son Keifer enjoyed delivering to his back side.

As he grew, it was obvious to me that he was more a creature of habit than even I was. He could tell time, which isn't a unique trait for a cat, I know, but he can be counted on to begin to wake me at 5:45 every morning. It starts with soft coos and builds to demanding "Mrrr-owww's." To say he has me trained would be quite accurate. I have tried techniques to stop the early, four-legged alarm clock to no avail. In fact, to ignore him is apt to trigger the most unpleasant response one might imagine.

One morning around 6:20 when I was not in the mood to be bothered by his persistent clamoring, I rolled over on my right side, pulled the covers up around my face, closed my eyes, and attempted to block out all sound. I sighed heavily to emphasize my choice to remain in bed a while longer and settled in to sleep. I knew that André had jumped onto my bed and was sitting on his haunches just behind me. Suddenly, I became aware of a warm sensation on the middle of my back that spread downward to the bed.

André was peeing on me.

I jumped out of bed, throwing the covers back as I did, and turned to look. There was a wet spot spreading on my sheet.

"What the hell, André ?" I screamed as I pulled my soiled pajama top off and tossed it in the washing machine. I went back to my bed to strip off the sheets, the mattress pad, and the waterproof mattress protector that thankfully had saved my mattress.

"Way to go, André!" I shouted. "Now you have to wait that much longer for me to take care of this mess you made!"

He stood as lily-white as his thick fur, looked at me blamelessly and meowed as though to remind me he was still waiting for me to feed him.

Who tolerates something like that?, you may be thinking.

My cats are my beloved companions. They rely on me for their well being. In spite of the antics, I love each of them, and I'm committed to their care for as long as they live. No, they aren't humans, but I would no longer rehome one of my cats than a good parent would if their child wet the bed.

There is a big difference in this case, however. André acted intentionally. He wanted me to know he was dissatisfied with my choice to ignore him. I'm absolutely certain of it. What do you do with that?

He taught me another lesson on my first trip to MD Anderson. We were gone just less than a week, but that was too long as far as André was concerned. When I got home and went upstairs, my bed looked just as it did when I left several days earlier. The quilt was pulled snug around the sides and corners, and the pillows were all in place, but I wanted to be sure. I walked around the room to the side I generally slept on, lifted the pillows off and pulled the covers back. There on my tan-colored sheets was a stain the size of an umbrella, and some of the overlapping circles were darker —fresher— than others. He had peed who knows how many times on my bed while I was gone!

Lesson learned from my autistic, lily-white cat.

The next trip to Houston, John helped me cover my bed from tip to stern with scat mats covered with harmless plastic spikes that make it impossible for a cat to walk on. It looked ridiculous, but it did the trick—no more peeing on mom's bed.

Believe it or not, André does possess endearing qualities. He's goofy as all get-out, and he's trusting and predictable. He loves belly rubs and he's obviously very food-motivated although he won't touch a treat. He's protective of Samson and one of my other cats, Eli. I've seen him intervene in squabbles between Sadie, the Maine Coon mix that usurped Samson's spot as the alpha, and Samson. For reasons I can't fathom, Eli and my orange tabby Josephine adore André. Eli, my littlest cat, rubs against him, begging for his attention, but André spurns him like a high school jock would an admiring dweeb. Josephine playfully attacks him, but as soon as he turns on her with his immense size, she wisely throws in the towel. Did I mention that André loves food?

André may never be the easiest cat to live with, but he has taught me patience, resilience, and even humor in the face of frustration. He reminds me daily that love isn’t always tidy or convenient — sometimes it comes wrapped in quirks, demands, and the occasional mess. In his own stubborn, unforgettable way, he has made my home, and my heart, more complete.

🌸 🐾 🌸

Eli — The Wary Survivor

While André is the giant in the house, Eli is by far the smallest of my cats. He came to me as a feral kitten around two months old. I managed to trap him and get him to my vet, who repaired an umbilical hernia, tested him for feline leukemia — he was negative, thankfully — and gave him the recommended vaccines. He spent the first several weeks in my guest bathroom, acclimating to captivity and his new life.

I worked full-time back then, but I spent every minute I could with Eli when I got home and on my days off. As he grew, he slowly became accustomed to the life of an indoor cat, but domestication proved elusive in spite of my efforts to gain his trust. That took much, much longer.

Over time Eli developed allergies, most likely to food, that caused him to scratch incessantly. He would self-mutilate, tearing sores into his face, his head, under his chin, on his withers, the small hollow between the shoulder blades. With so many other cats, it was impossible to keep food allergens from affecting him, as even Samson grooming him could trigger an allergic reaction from his saliva.

I sometimes joke about the fact that Eli is the most expensive cat I have ever owned, and he certainly is. I tried everything, even taking him to a veterinary dermatologist, but the means to determine exactly what made him itch so badly doesn't exist as yet. The only way to determine what food ingredient was at fault would be isolation and months of trying different foods. It was beyond my ability to conduct that kind of testing. Even so, I purchased whatever medications my vets recommended, bought expensive hydrolyzed protein food, fed him in a room by himself, and doctored his wounds as best I could.

Eli in March 2020

Early on, capturing him to get him to the vet was a major undertaking. I always managed somehow, but there were times the room where I finally caught him looked like the DEA had come through and tossed it — drawers opened and sitting on the floor, upended mattress with blankets and pillows everywhere. No need for a trip to the gym for me. I was winded and sweating by the time I had him subdued in his carrier.

That task has gotten much easier over the years. Eli is nine years old now...hard to believe it's been that long. As the years have passed, I have watched him transform from the hissing, frightened feral he was to an affectionate, trusting companion who sleeps on the pillow next to mine every night. Of all my cats, he has taught me the most. From him, I have learned patience, persistence, discretion, restraint and temperance — and so has he.

He came to me feral, and I have learned that a part of him always will be. But not the best part. It's hard to describe how it feels to have a formerly wild and terrified animal seek out physical affection from you, butting his head into yours while he purrs vigorously, then curling up to sleep next to you while you stroke his slender body and soft, smooth fur. Trust like that hasn't come easily for Eli, and it's all for me. He bestows that trust on no one else. What could be more special than that?

Eli on August 30, 2025

🌸 🐾 🌸

Josephine — The Spunky Kitten

This little girl has truly blossomed into her own. Similar to Eli, she seemed to have a feral streak when she showed up on my back deck one cold morning in December 2020, but it was apparent to me that she had some limited exposure to human beings. She appeared to be five or six months old at the time, and I wondered if she belonged to someone in the neighborhood. If she did, she found my offerings to be more to her liking because she came back day after day until she finally mustered the courage to come inside and join my clowder. I welcomed her happily. She was not only precious, she was somewhat unique. About 80% of orange tabbies are male, but this little girl inherited two orange genes. That only happens in about 1 in 5 tabbies.

Josephine on January 15, 2021

To help her acclimate without being overwhelmed, I spent one-on-one time with her in my closet. She was a bit nippy at first. It should have served as forewarning. The day I had to catch her to put her in a carrier to go to the vet to be neutered, she didn't just nip. She gave me a bite so nasty I had to have a tetanus shot and antibiotics. Sounds crazy, I know, but that's what a terrified animal does.

That memory soon faded as she made herself at home. More than that, she intuitively recognized her place in the clowder hierarchy and quickly began to make the most of it.

It's hard to describe the transformation of this one. John would say she is "full of piss and vinegar." I suppose she is in a chicken-liver kind of way. She can dish it out, but she knows when to retreat. Andre is her favorite target.

Josie is compact and stocky with a thick, silky orange coat. She probably weighs maybe 10-12 lbs. compared to André at 20, but she is undaunted by his size. The cats learn each other's natures, and Josephine knows André is a big, lazy oaf of a cat who avoids unnecessary expenditures of energy. I think that's why she likes to pester him. He plays along, to an extent, but she doesn't take any chances. As soon as he responds in kind, she skedaddles.

A friend of my son Kohlson is a talented cartoon illustrator, and she drew a depiction of Josephine and André after seeing a video of the two. It captures them perfectly in its simplicity.

Josie absolutely loves John. She gravitates to him every time he's in the house. As an avowed dog-lover, John claims not to "get" cats, let alone my proclivity to them, and he certainly doesn't understand when they take to him. I've read that cats tend to gravitate to people who ignore them because they are aloof by nature and prefer not to be messed with, which would seem to hold true in the case of most cats where children are involved. That doesn't really describe Josephine, especially when it comes to John.

With me, Josephine's affection is so genuine and sweet that I can't help but love her. Nearly every morning, she hops up next to me in my big red arm chair in my bedroom where I read passages from my Daily Bible and from a book by Oswald Chambers, "My Utmost for His Highest." I'll stroke her head as I read, and she's as content as a pig in a mud pit. At bedtime she has this unusual habit of first greeting me so I can scratch her head and then turning around to lie next to me lengthwise with her butt closest to my reach. I researched this particular behavior, and the explanation that made the most sense was that it's a throwback from kittenhood when she would do the same to her mama so she could groom her more easily.

Another of her quirks is that anytime you go to stroke her head, she tips her nose toward the ceiling as if to lean into the touch. This is how I know it's her in the dark of night when I can't see which cat has made its way onto my bed.

Josephine is my best example of a rescue that undeniably chose me. She has never once tried to dash out an open door and back to life outside. She seems to have no interest in it at all with the exception of bird-watching and intimidation that she can wield from inside the reinforced screens of my catio. She is one of the most content cats I have ever known. She came into my home content to stay. She is fine with the food offerings I provide. She is okay with playing second fiddle to Samson. She is satisfied that she is living her best life, and that's what matters most to me.

🌸 🐾 🌸

Fynn — The Fragile Fighter

This one's going to be tough...not as painful as Sophie's, but almost. Many of you know Fynn's story, how he was abandoned in the woods in a dilapidated cage from which he somehow managed to escape with a terrible abscess on his neck. When he was finally rescued, he was skin and bones. Through it all, however, he remained good-natured and trusting when he had every reason to consider humans to be cruel and heartless.

Fynn before rehabilitation

Fynn after rehabilitation

Because of his condition when he was found, his disability wasn't immediately apparent. It took some time to realize that he had cerebellar hypoplasia, CH or "wobbly cat syndrome." Fortunately, Fynn's case was a mild one. His gait was nearly normal, but he didn't like to be touched. I think his awareness of his limitations made him wary of toppling over. He never used the cat door that led to the catio, so I would open the sliding glass door wide enough for him to slip out where he loved to lie in the sun. He was agile enough to climb up on the cat tree and lounge in the cubby about six feet up.

This animal was unique in so many ways. My son Keifer discovered that he loved to have his toe beans rubbed, and he would spread his toes as wide as possible so you could massage in between them. It was comical to see and a trait that was exclusive to him. Somewhat surprising was his tendency to be a bully, particularly to Eli. Due to the CH, he was all bluster. Watching him play was a hoot; you couldn’t help but laugh at how clumsy and uncoordinated he was. Over time, however, I noticed that his coordination improved slightly, and while he was obviously self-aware of his handicap, he never let it stop him.

When my cancer relapsed in June 2025, it became more and more difficult for me to keep up with my house. Tasks that usually took a few hours now took days, and I felt exhausted all the time. Sophie’s health was failing at the time, and squabbles involving Sadie were making life difficult for me too. I knew I would need to make some changes.

John asked me one day which cats I might be able to give up. I have to admit I had never considered such a thing, but my health had to be a priority. As hard as it was, I knew I would need to find homes for at least two of them. Keeping Samson, Andre, Josephine and Eli was non-negotiable for me.

One day I sat down with my laptop and created a post featuring two of my beloved pets: Sadie and Fynn. Part of me thought no one would respond. After all, there was no shortage of cats and kittens advertised daily by people who couldn’t care for them or simply didn’t want to. I fit in neither category. Mine was a matter of necessity due to my health challenges, but that didn’t make it easier.

I received a few inquiries about Fynn, but after looking at profiles, I knew they weren’t suitable candidates. I wasn’t discouraged. I didn’t want to give either of them up to begin with. Then one evening, my son came for dinner. When he learned that I had put Fynn up for adoption, he stepped up to take him without hesitation. He even told me that if I wanted him to foster Fynn temporarily, he would do that as well. As difficult as I know it would be for him to give him back to me someday in the future, I knew he would honor that agreement.

Knowing Fynn is being cared for and loved by my son took a weight of guilt and worry off my mind, but I miss him. Eli has relaxed a little more since Fynn has been gone, but Sadie still bullies him at every opportunity. Still, I miss stroking his silky fur as he lay curled up against the pillow next to my head. I also miss staring into his sparkling blue eyes that remind me of a crystal blue ocean.

Keifer tells me Fynn is content and has even become buddies with Loki, Keifer's black, long-haired beauty of a cat with a skittish nature. I'm glad the two get along, but I still hope someday to bring Fynn back into the clowder. I miss him so.

🌸 🐾 🌸

Sadie — The Gentle Companion

Of all my rescues, Sadie was the easiest to assimilate. She was very loving and affectionate from the beginning, but she was also quite dominant, which didn't set well with the alpha male of the clowder, Samson. Even after three years, they don't like each other, but since Sadie outweighs Samson by nearly eight pounds, he generally capitulates to her domineering tendencies. She's not aggressive. On the contrary, she generally goes out of her way to avoid confrontations with all of the cats...except Eli. She treats him like the bully whipping up on the awkward kid on the playground.

She is otherwise easy-going and prefers my company to John's, climbing into my lap at every opportunity to curl up, purr, and sleep contentedly. That's what she lives for, but she knows her competition is stiff. I hate that for her, in a way, because she deserves to be loved as much as she loves. With four other cats to compete with, I think it's hard for her to compromise. Nevertheless, she does her best.

As much as I love her, I wish she could be in a home where she was the only cat, where she could be the exclusive recipient of all the affection she deserves. When she hops up on my bed at night, she looks at me with her one pretty, green eye, and I see a question, "Can I come up and snuggle with you?" One pat of my hand on the bed next to me, and Sadie comes happily to me and nestles close, purring loudly as she tucks her head under a paw

and closes her eye. I have never seen a cat more content to be close to her human. How could I not love her?

There is a lot to admire about this sweet girl. Even though I don't know how old she is, how she lost her eye, or how she came to be a visitor at my daughter-in-law's house, she has the undaunted spirit of a lioness, combined with the gentleness of a canine companion. They say Maine Coons offer the best of both species: the independent soul of a cat and the sacred devotion of a dog. Sadie certainly embodies both.

---

As I think back on Sadie and all the cats who have passed through my life, I see a tapestry of moments: playful leaps, quiet nights, mischievous accidents, and tender goodbyes. Each one of them has left an imprint, shaping not only my home but also my heart.

🐾

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Reflections on a Life with Cats

Each of my cats has brought something unique into my life — joy, laughter, lessons in patience, and sometimes heartbreak. They’ve been teachers as much as companions, showing me what it means to live fully, love fiercely, and let go gracefully.

It’s hard to sum up what they mean to me, but these words come close:

“Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened.” — Anatole France “The smallest feline is a masterpiece.” — Leonardo da Vinci “Time spent with cats is never wasted.” — Sigmund Freud

I began writing these stories to honor the cats who have filled my home. But in telling them, I’ve realized something more: they have not simply shared my life, they have shaped it. Their paw prints run through every corner of my days, marking me in ways both tender and profound.

There will be more whiskers, more purrs, and, someday, more goodbyes. Yet each new companion will carry forward the lessons of those who came before — reminders that love is always worth the risk of loss. And that, I think, is the true gift of sharing life with animals: they soften us, steady us, and awaken the very best parts of who we are.

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