Of Cats and Christmas Trees

Putting up the Christmas tree was quite a production in my family. It took trips to five different tree lots to find an evergreen that met with my father's approval. We usually wound up with a Scotch pine. Their knotty, crooked stems engendered much un-Yule like cussing as my parents wrestled them into our unyielding tree stand.

Once the tree was up --albeit usually with a definite list -- the magic began. Twinkling tree lights reflected in my daddy's glasses. He sipped on his "toddy," ho-ho-ho'd and crooned Christmas carols in his lovely baritone. His favorite was "Jingle Bell Rock." He could never remember the words, and made up new ones every time he sang it. My mother carefully placed the ornaments they had collected together. Each one had a story.

Today, putting up the tree is a weekend chore I squeeze in between making dinner and doing laundry. The only tree lot I visit is the one in my closet. The "perfect" tree is the rather worn four-year old pre-lit that comes in three parts and slips effortlessly into place in minutes.

But that's not to say that tree decorating is short on drama -- or magic.

When the kitties entered my life seven years ago, the most fragile of my treasured heirloom ornaments, some inherited from my parents, others carefully saved for and bought every pay-day, went into storage to be gazed at lovingly as I placed the sturdier ornaments on the branches.

The year my mother passed away during the holidays I looked at them a little longer than usual.

For the cats, the Christmas tree was a great big cat toy decorated with smaller cat toys. I frequently came home to find the tree denuded and kittens slumbering peacefully amidst the boughs. The lights twinkled in their huge green and amber eyes as they used to twinkle in my daddy's glasses. It was still magical.

Then came December 2005. We found ourselves in our big new empty house in a new town. We had no furniture. No tree. No ornaments. Hurricane Katrina had taken all of it. And, boy, did we need a tree.

With a week to go until Christmas, I found a cheap pre-lit tree at Wal-Mart and a handful of ornaments at the dollar store. That night I pulled my air mattress up to the tree and drifted off to the tune of rustling branches and tiny cheap apple ornaments bouncing off the floor and walls. It may have been my favorite Christmas tree ever.

I still have that sad little tree, its limbs bent from four Christmases of supporting my kitties' growing weight. My ornament collection is growing, too.

My current tree is a reflection of my past and my present. I found five of my old ornaments buried in Katrina muck. Gold covered chocolate coins and St. Nicholas figures speak to my Croatian heritage. Santas painted on oyster and crab shells recall my hometown of Biloxi. Beautiful pewter renderings of Hattiesburg's architectural attractions pay homage to my new home. And, of course, there are kitty ornaments everywhere.

The cats are older now. Except for Koko's enthusiastic leap to the top the day the tree went up, this holiday season it appears that they will spend more time snoozing under the tree than they will climbing in it.

But the lights still twinkle in their eyes. I sip my toddy, place my ornaments and sing "Jingle Bell Rock." I make up the words because I've never learned the right ones.

And it's all still pure magic.

Happy Thanksgiving From The House Where The Black Cat Lives

Have You Hugged Your Vet Today?

Today is the day that I have been counting down all year. It's been circled in red on my calendar, and planned out as strategically as D-Day. Except it's V-Day. Vet Day.

No, not Veterans' Day -- that was last week. I mean Veterinarian Day, the day when all seven, yes all seven, of the cats go in for their annual physicals, shot updates and pedicures.

I look forward to this annual event about as much as the French aristocrats looked forward to that ride to the guillotine. I always feel like asking for a blindfold, a cigarette and a shot of whiskey beforehand.

Now why, in the name of God, you may well ask, would anybody in their right mind willingly undertake a maneuver involving seven cats at one time?

The same reason you rip the Band Aid off a healed sore and cannonball into a cold swimming hole. You just want to get it over with.

Preps begin the night before. As the kitties slumber peacefully -- all unawares of the fate awaiting them the next day -- I sneak the carriers into the house and into the back bedroom. The next morning, after breakfast, I line the carriers up -- doors open and forward facing in the hallway and cut off all means of egress.

Familiar with the term "herding cats"? Yep, that's just what's about to commence here.

As the kitties settle down for the first of many post-prandial naps of the day, I carry them away, by one, down the hall and into a waiting carrier. By the third trip, heads are up, whiskers twitching on the alert. Inevitably one or two will get away. Today CJ eluded capture. Never mind, she'll get hers next week.

Carriers are loaded, in formation, into the car. A warning call is placed to the Davis Veterinary Clinic. And the cat-mobile is underway.

With military efficiency, the awaiting vet team unloads the car, whisks the carriers past the other waiting cats and d-o-g-s into the exam room. Amid much mewing, yowling, and hissing, carriers are numbered, syringes filled, ears, eyes and teeth examined, weight measured, shots administered and claws trimmed. The usual suspects are whisked aside for urine tests.

In less than an hour, we're all back home, and the cats are enjoying their well-deserved treats.

So to Dr. Chip, Dr. Davis, both Rebeccas, Sarah, Michelle, Brooke and all the other folks down at the Davis Veterinary Clinic I send hugs and thank yous from the House Where the Black Cat Lives. You guys make my crazy life possible.

I think I'll have that shot of whiskey now.

Sleeping With Cats

The temperature is starting to dip in the 'burg. The last few nights it actually got down into the 30s and 40s. To borrow a phrase from the Inuits, "It was a three cat night." Actually they would say three dog night since that's how they keep warm up there on the ice, by sleeping with their dogs. And you thought that was just a 60's-70's rock band.

I should confess right now, I just fibbed up there a sentence or two ago. Last night was easily a seven cat night. I just didn't want to seem all whine-y and princess-y. God knows South Mississippi is not exactly the Arctic Circle. Cold here is a relative -- and fleeting -- term. And my cats are not as big as those sled dogs -- although they probably eat as much judging from my last Pet Smart receipt.

Bottom line: When it does get cold in Hattiesburg, it is especially cold in my house. It's one of those charming raised cottages with the original windows -- and drafty as all get out. You don't want to know what my gas bill is. I wish I didn't.

While I'm watching my hard-earned dollars slip through the cracks in my woefully inadequate insulation, it's nice, especially, in this economy, to have my fur babies snuggled all around me. Even if they do hog the bed and cause me to sleep in weirdly contorted positions.

There are perks to being a cat mama.

My Merry Band of Mutants

Photos: Ernie and a close up of one of his paws.

I think all of my babies are just beautiful. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And to some beholders some of my cats have looks that only a cat mama could love.

Like their mother (the biological one, not me), Nettie and C.J. have a little bit of every color in catdom mixed in their coats. The correct term for this coloration is "tortoiseshell." The popular term is "those ugly cats." But we don't use the "u" word at The House Where the Black Cat Lives. I believe all little girls, even feline ones, should be told they are beautiful every day.

Like Joseph, C.J. wears her amazing -- and fluffy -- Technicolor dream coat very successfully-- she is a bona fide beauty. A non-cat person once told me her sister Nettie's fur resembled what they imagined dragon puke looks like. That was harsh. For the record, Miss Nettie Louise is the smartest of all my cats. Brains trump beauty any day. And she doesn't take any crap from her prettier brothers. Torties are also known for their tempers.

Like their mama (again the biological one) C.J. and her brother Koko, sport abbreviated little tails, the results of a genetic mutation caused by inbreeding. Insert bad joke about the South here. They may not have much, but they're proud of what they've got. While his brothers, Henry and Sammy walk around flourishing their long, luxuriant appendages, Koko wags his like a dog. I call him my puppy cat. C.J., on the other hand, has the merest suggestion of a fluffy pouf on her rump. That, her shy nature and loping run have earned her the nickname "Bunny Cat."

Then there's Ernie and his many, many toes. He's what's known as a polydactyl. But most people refer to felines with this condition as Hemingway cats after the writer (and Ernie's namesake) who was very fond of them. Those extra toes -- yeah, another one of those genetic mutations associated with inbreeding.

Now, Ernie is no average mutant, but a super-mutating overachiever: He has extra toes on both his front AND back paws, a rarity even in the polydactyl world. The poor little thing walks way pigeon-toed. I'm just glad he's got extra toes instead of extra heads. But then again he'd probably be worth a lot more that way. I love him, but he's pretty worthless as he is.

He also has a ground-dragging belly of the type usually seen only in the beer aisle of your neighborhood Wal-Mart. It swings from side to side when he runs. I don't think there is a recessive gene associated with that. What can I say? My boy likes his kibble.

Ironically, Ernie is not biologically related to my other mutant kitties -- at least as far as I know but who can really be sure about stray cats? I'd say from the looks of things they all come from good Southern stock. Although I think their mama, Celie, may actually have been a Japanese bobtail.

While researching polydactylism, I came across the web site for the Ernest Hemingway home on Key West . There's like 60 cats living there, half of them polydactyls. Weirdly enough (or not considering this is Key West), the home is a popular site for weddings.

Hmmmmmmm. I always thought of cat ladydom as just an eccentric lifestyle choice. Now I'm starting to see some business opportunities in it.

The House Where the Black Cat Lives and Wedding Chapel. I like it.