You can tell a lot about a person by the car they drive. Not so much the type of car -- mine's a fairly generic Toyota Camry -- but by what they keep in it.
You wouldn't need to be a super-sleuth to figure out I'm a cat mama.
I actually chose the Camry over the Corolla so that I would have ample floor and seat room for stacking all seven cats in their carriers for our annual vaccination vet runs, household moves and emergency hurricane evacuations (been there, done that).
Peek into my trunk. On any given day you'll spy cases of canned cat food, large bags of kibble, water bottles, paper plates, trash bags, economy-size boxes of kitty litter (hefting those in and out of the car comprises my weight-lifting regimen) and a few empty Pet Smart bags, receipts and coupons that I never get around to using.
Like any cat mama, and a former Girl Scout, I travel prepared for any possible feline emergency. The "passengers" in my formerly roomy back seat include a wire small animal trap along with some camoflauge blankets and towels and some heavy duty claw-proof gloves. You just never know when the opportunity to trap a feral will present itself.
I also cart around a plastic cat carrier in case a kitty requires transport to the emergency vet pronto.
Always mindful of public relations -- yep, it's what I do in my spare time as well as my professional life -- I keep a few info kits about living harmoniously with feral cats from Alley Cat Allies, to hand out along with garbage can bungee cords and cat repellent to address some of the more prevalent crises I deal with.
And in my glove compartment? A supersize cat hair remover roller for last minute cleanup, wipes (because accidents do happen) and car deoderant -- because, let's face it, cat food stinks.
OK, so now you know what's in my cat mobile. What can people tell about you from YOUR car?
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Baby Daddy
I’ve rarely met a cat, especially a black cat, that I didn’t like.
But I don’t really like this one.
He’s mean. Really mean.
He chased off my two sweet boys, Fergus and Tux.
He beats up on his woman, Peggy Sue’s beautiful girl Funny Face, she of the sapphire eyes and Himalayan coat.
He’s the baby daddy to her two half-grown kittens, Gizmo and Leona, and probably also fathered the litter she gave birth to some three weeks ago.
He abuses his kids, too.
Gizmo and Leona hide in the tall grass when he’s around and walk between my ankles for protection from him when I come to feed them.
I usually just refer to him as "The Baby Daddy," but lately, I’ve started calling him “Sid.”
But I don’t really like this one.
He’s mean. Really mean.
He chased off my two sweet boys, Fergus and Tux.
He beats up on his woman, Peggy Sue’s beautiful girl Funny Face, she of the sapphire eyes and Himalayan coat.
He’s the baby daddy to her two half-grown kittens, Gizmo and Leona, and probably also fathered the litter she gave birth to some three weeks ago.
He abuses his kids, too.
Gizmo and Leona hide in the tall grass when he’s around and walk between my ankles for protection from him when I come to feed them.
I usually just refer to him as "The Baby Daddy," but lately, I’ve started calling him “Sid.”
When Sid first started hanging out at the colony, he was wearing a flea color, so he must have belonged to someone sometime. He’s since lost the collar and apparently his home, too.
Maybe he was abandoned by someone in the trailer park down the street from the colony.
I suspect Sid’s home, when he had one, was not happy. The wary way he circles me, his plaintive cries, hisses and growls, the obsessively jealous way he guards his food tell a story of starvation and abuse.
I used to chase him off, but he refused to go. So now I feed him, speak to him softly, and, when he is receptive, scratch his ears. Even bad cats need love.
Occasionally, he purrs. He sounds rusty, like the engine turning over in an infrequently driven car.
Maybe if he wasn’t fueled by so much baggage and testosterone, he wouldn’t be so doggone cranky.
I know how to fix the testosterone. If I can manage to trap him, a trip to the spay and neuter clinic will get rid of all that in about three months.
Getting rid of the rest of his baggage may take a little longer.
And I don't have longer. I have just found out that my darlings are in trouble. Big trouble.
The neighborhood association where my little family resides has some issues and wants to get rid of them. Apparently, the fact that there are crack houses and growing drug problems in this neighborhood is no big deal to "the association". But they are very concerned about getting rid of a few cats who are cared for and sleep all day
To most of you this may not seem like a big deal. It is to me. Huge.
My heart is breaking, my stomach is churning, my blood pressure is up so high, it's like tribal drums beating in my ears. I just got a new mattress set. But something tells me I'm not going to sleep tonight. Or any night until I can resolve this.
You see. I've cared for this colony, and its evolving membership, for going on four years now. That's longer than many significant relationships in my life.
I've helped trap, foster and find "forever" homes for eight of its kittens. I've spayed/neutered three adult members and adopted two of them myself. One sleeps in my bed; one in my garage.
I've fed them by flashlight in the dark. Through cold winters and hot summers, I've slipped flea medicine on their necks when they scratch and antibiotics into their food when they are injured.
I've run interference with the neighbors and supplied informative literature about feral cats along with bungee cords and Nature's Miracle to deal with the more common complaints.
I've smiled into faces I've wanted to slap. Listened patiently and with as much sympathy as I can muster to some pretty outrageous (and I'm pretty sure some bogus whining). I've resisted the urge to point out that the "cats" they describe getting into their trash sound more like raccoons and that trash bags placed on the curb without benefit of first being placed in a can with a secure lid are an open invitation to raccoons, dogs, possums, foxes and other wildlife, not just cats.
I don't see myself just walking away at this point as some of my "friends" have suggested I do (for shame!) My babies, even Sid, need me now more than ever. No one else is stepping up to the plate.
I'll make a last ditch attempt to educate the ignorant, trap/spay/neuter/relocate the innocent and get assistance from the uncommitted . But I feel I'm going it totally alone.
And that scares the hell out of me. For me. And especially for the kitties.
Maybe he was abandoned by someone in the trailer park down the street from the colony.
I suspect Sid’s home, when he had one, was not happy. The wary way he circles me, his plaintive cries, hisses and growls, the obsessively jealous way he guards his food tell a story of starvation and abuse.
I used to chase him off, but he refused to go. So now I feed him, speak to him softly, and, when he is receptive, scratch his ears. Even bad cats need love.
Occasionally, he purrs. He sounds rusty, like the engine turning over in an infrequently driven car.
Maybe if he wasn’t fueled by so much baggage and testosterone, he wouldn’t be so doggone cranky.
I know how to fix the testosterone. If I can manage to trap him, a trip to the spay and neuter clinic will get rid of all that in about three months.
Getting rid of the rest of his baggage may take a little longer.
And I don't have longer. I have just found out that my darlings are in trouble. Big trouble.
The neighborhood association where my little family resides has some issues and wants to get rid of them. Apparently, the fact that there are crack houses and growing drug problems in this neighborhood is no big deal to "the association". But they are very concerned about getting rid of a few cats who are cared for and sleep all day
To most of you this may not seem like a big deal. It is to me. Huge.
My heart is breaking, my stomach is churning, my blood pressure is up so high, it's like tribal drums beating in my ears. I just got a new mattress set. But something tells me I'm not going to sleep tonight. Or any night until I can resolve this.
You see. I've cared for this colony, and its evolving membership, for going on four years now. That's longer than many significant relationships in my life.
I've helped trap, foster and find "forever" homes for eight of its kittens. I've spayed/neutered three adult members and adopted two of them myself. One sleeps in my bed; one in my garage.
I've fed them by flashlight in the dark. Through cold winters and hot summers, I've slipped flea medicine on their necks when they scratch and antibiotics into their food when they are injured.
I've run interference with the neighbors and supplied informative literature about feral cats along with bungee cords and Nature's Miracle to deal with the more common complaints.
I've smiled into faces I've wanted to slap. Listened patiently and with as much sympathy as I can muster to some pretty outrageous (and I'm pretty sure some bogus whining). I've resisted the urge to point out that the "cats" they describe getting into their trash sound more like raccoons and that trash bags placed on the curb without benefit of first being placed in a can with a secure lid are an open invitation to raccoons, dogs, possums, foxes and other wildlife, not just cats.
I don't see myself just walking away at this point as some of my "friends" have suggested I do (for shame!) My babies, even Sid, need me now more than ever. No one else is stepping up to the plate.
I'll make a last ditch attempt to educate the ignorant, trap/spay/neuter/relocate the innocent and get assistance from the uncommitted . But I feel I'm going it totally alone.
And that scares the hell out of me. For me. And especially for the kitties.
Most of all this makes me mad as hell.
They're God's creatures. Don't they deserve better?
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Peggy Sue, Part Deux
When we last checked in, our heroine, Peggy Sue, was holed up in my bathroom cabinet, resolutely , yet politely, refusing to be tamed while awaiting her date with destiny – an appointment at the local spay and neuter clinic.
I never did tame her, but I did get her spayed.
Now she’s living in my garage. Sort of.
The original plan was to return her to her home turf and into the bosom of the colony she had helped found. However, the colony underwent a profound demographic shift during Peggy Sue’s tenure in my bathroom.
In a turn of events worthy of a tragedy by Shakespeare, a mean cuss of an abandoned black tom cat had moved in, chased off Peggy Sue’s two grown sons, beat up and impregnated her daughter and staked his claim to the old homestead with a series of well-aimed, pungent sprays.
Feral cats, territorial creatures that they are, don’t really cotton to relocation, but I didn’t see as how I or Peggy Sue had much of a choice.
So into my garage Peggy Sue went with her carrier lined with now-familiar towel, her litter box and her food and water bowls. After about a week, I cracked open the door remembering that cheesy poster so prevalent on dorm room walls during my long-ago youth, “If you love something set it free, if it comes back it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.”
The next day all that remained of Peggy Sue were a few tufts of grey fur clinging to her terry blankie.
For nearly a month, I left food for her every evening at dusk, humming a few bars of “Peggy Sue” in the direction of my neighbor’s bamboo privacy hedge across the alley way where I fancied a feline shadow lurked.
The kibble was always gone in the morning, but no further sign of Peggy Sue. One grey dawn, I did see one of the other neighborhood cats squeezing his growing belly under the garage door. Mystery solved. Looks like Peggy Sue wasn’t coming back. Still, perversely I continued to set out food and a few of the treats she had grown so fond of.
Last Friday I came home a little later than normal. A familiar head with a bobbed ear cautiously peered from under the garage door and up at me with wide-set peridot eyes. Peggy Sue? She mewed in the affirmative and ran to the privacy hedge, talking to me all the while.
She had plenty to say.
She looked well fed, healthy and relatively well-adjusted.
So, now she’s back -- if she, in fact, ever really went away. Does that mean, she’s mine? Not really. She never was, probably never will be. But we’re still talking, and we’ll always have “our song.”
So now you know why I’m less blue ‘bout Peggy, about Peggy Sue.
I never did tame her, but I did get her spayed.
Now she’s living in my garage. Sort of.
The original plan was to return her to her home turf and into the bosom of the colony she had helped found. However, the colony underwent a profound demographic shift during Peggy Sue’s tenure in my bathroom.
In a turn of events worthy of a tragedy by Shakespeare, a mean cuss of an abandoned black tom cat had moved in, chased off Peggy Sue’s two grown sons, beat up and impregnated her daughter and staked his claim to the old homestead with a series of well-aimed, pungent sprays.
Feral cats, territorial creatures that they are, don’t really cotton to relocation, but I didn’t see as how I or Peggy Sue had much of a choice.
So into my garage Peggy Sue went with her carrier lined with now-familiar towel, her litter box and her food and water bowls. After about a week, I cracked open the door remembering that cheesy poster so prevalent on dorm room walls during my long-ago youth, “If you love something set it free, if it comes back it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.”
The next day all that remained of Peggy Sue were a few tufts of grey fur clinging to her terry blankie.
For nearly a month, I left food for her every evening at dusk, humming a few bars of “Peggy Sue” in the direction of my neighbor’s bamboo privacy hedge across the alley way where I fancied a feline shadow lurked.
The kibble was always gone in the morning, but no further sign of Peggy Sue. One grey dawn, I did see one of the other neighborhood cats squeezing his growing belly under the garage door. Mystery solved. Looks like Peggy Sue wasn’t coming back. Still, perversely I continued to set out food and a few of the treats she had grown so fond of.
Last Friday I came home a little later than normal. A familiar head with a bobbed ear cautiously peered from under the garage door and up at me with wide-set peridot eyes. Peggy Sue? She mewed in the affirmative and ran to the privacy hedge, talking to me all the while.
She had plenty to say.
She looked well fed, healthy and relatively well-adjusted.
So, now she’s back -- if she, in fact, ever really went away. Does that mean, she’s mine? Not really. She never was, probably never will be. But we’re still talking, and we’ll always have “our song.”
So now you know why I’m less blue ‘bout Peggy, about Peggy Sue.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
To Stroke or Not to Stroke, That Is The Question
Is your cat lovey-dovey one minute, and downright mean the next? I have often noted the differences in my cats' personalities. One of the major differences is their varying thresholds for affection -- both giving and receiving . How quickly those thresholds can change!
Koko is a love bug whose favorite activity in life is to be snuggled into the crook of my side or knees, kneading away and purring his funny little out-of-tune purr. That said, he has a very low tolerance for actually being picked up in my arms and carried around.
Henry is a "Don't call me, I'll call you" type. As I have said before, he is SUCH a guy. That said, when he wants attention, he wants my FULL attention and will go around poking me until I give it to him.
Ernie, Roxie and Nettie, on the other hand, love to be picked up. Ernie, bless his heart, is just too big for me to pick up too often. I can do anything to Roxie, including rubbing her face and sticking my fingers in her ears and she won't let out a squeak. Nettie loves to be held, but can get pissy if I try to put her down, rub her too hard or even rub her too often. She actually curls her upper lip at me when I give her the wrong kind of attention.
Sammy is an attention whore who meows and head butts until he gets my attention. But after about three strokes, he throws the personality switch and comes after me. I have little bruises from Sammy's love bites all up and down the underside of my arm.
CJ is undoubtedly the most distant of my cats. From the time she was a kitten, she has been a loner. She doesn't even seem to like her siblings, except for Sammy, with whom she has always had a weirdly close relationship. Days will go by without seeing her. The Recurring Gentleman Caller and I had been seeing each other for three months when he asked "Did you get a new cat?" while pointing to CJ who had surfaced for a drink of water. That said, on rare occasion, she will come up to me, head bent, and sit by my side patiently waiting for a stroke on the head.
Apparently, dual-personalities is a common trait among cats, and major headache for the people who love them. But according to this article, we shouldn't take it personally.
They're just being cats.
Gotta love 'em.
Koko is a love bug whose favorite activity in life is to be snuggled into the crook of my side or knees, kneading away and purring his funny little out-of-tune purr. That said, he has a very low tolerance for actually being picked up in my arms and carried around.
Henry is a "Don't call me, I'll call you" type. As I have said before, he is SUCH a guy. That said, when he wants attention, he wants my FULL attention and will go around poking me until I give it to him.
Ernie, Roxie and Nettie, on the other hand, love to be picked up. Ernie, bless his heart, is just too big for me to pick up too often. I can do anything to Roxie, including rubbing her face and sticking my fingers in her ears and she won't let out a squeak. Nettie loves to be held, but can get pissy if I try to put her down, rub her too hard or even rub her too often. She actually curls her upper lip at me when I give her the wrong kind of attention.
Sammy is an attention whore who meows and head butts until he gets my attention. But after about three strokes, he throws the personality switch and comes after me. I have little bruises from Sammy's love bites all up and down the underside of my arm.
CJ is undoubtedly the most distant of my cats. From the time she was a kitten, she has been a loner. She doesn't even seem to like her siblings, except for Sammy, with whom she has always had a weirdly close relationship. Days will go by without seeing her. The Recurring Gentleman Caller and I had been seeing each other for three months when he asked "Did you get a new cat?" while pointing to CJ who had surfaced for a drink of water. That said, on rare occasion, she will come up to me, head bent, and sit by my side patiently waiting for a stroke on the head.
Apparently, dual-personalities is a common trait among cats, and major headache for the people who love them. But according to this article, we shouldn't take it personally.
They're just being cats.
Gotta love 'em.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
I'm a Winner!
Bonjour, y'all! Just found out I won this great little cookbook in a blogging giveaway over at "My French Corner."
I love food, I love to cook, I love France. Lately I haven't had time for much of any of it, so a 10-minute French cookbook sounds custom made for me. I can't wait to try it. And the period illustrations look too cute.
If you're a Francophile, pop on over to "My French Corner." It's an adorable (and very readable) blog about adding French touches to your everyday life. It's one of my faves.
Bon weekend (this has made mine!)
I love food, I love to cook, I love France. Lately I haven't had time for much of any of it, so a 10-minute French cookbook sounds custom made for me. I can't wait to try it. And the period illustrations look too cute.
If you're a Francophile, pop on over to "My French Corner." It's an adorable (and very readable) blog about adding French touches to your everyday life. It's one of my faves.
Bon weekend (this has made mine!)
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Eating My Way Through New Orleans: The Green Goddess and Boucherie
As my Blogger profile states, one of my life goals is to eat my way through the great restaurants of New Orleans. Here's hoping I live a reallllllyyyyy long time because this is turning out to be quite the project -- and one I relish completely.
Since starting the project, I've dined (in no particular order) at: Camellia Grill, Lola's, Cafe Degas, Elizabeth's, Emerils, Bayona, Praline Connection, the Upperline, Bacco, Ralph's on the Park, Luke, Britgsen's, Stanley's, La Petite Grocery, Lilette, Herbsaint, Mr. B's, and now The Green Goddess and Boucherie.
I have yet to eat at a bad restaurant. Yes, I like some places better than others (and sometimes it is just because I ordered the wrong dish or the restaurant was too crowded or someone obnoxious at the next table put a damper on the occasion).
Good food for me is good food. I'm not a snob about location, celebrity chefs or price point. However, I am discovering that my favorite places are a little off the beaten path (as in not necessarily in the Quarter), neighborhood gems that are somewhat upscale (but not intimidatingly so) with small, intimate dining rooms reminiscent of a bistro in Paris. Does this surprise anyone that knows me?
The Green Goddess, though in the Quarter, still earns points for being hard to find; it's located on Exchange Place, the charming alley way located between the Louisiana Supreme Court and the Monteleone Hotel. It's also extremely intimate; plan on sitting outside and waiting for a table no matter how early you get there. The list of speciality drinks is impressive as is the cheese list.
The food is inventive and pairs some unusual flavors -- a soup with a watermelon, ginger base topped with avocado and crab meat, for instance. Some pairings work more successfully than others. I was a little hampered because it was Good Friday, the one day a year when I am an observant Catholic (I know it makes no sense), so I limited my options to vegetarian/seafood, and as is always the case, the meaty dishes were what sounded, looked and smelled appealing. But still it was a fun, funky, yummy experience. The chef (and the menu) are totally different at lunch and dinner so I may have to go back at lunch sometime (and not during Lent).
It's a good thing I saved Boucherie for Saturday because the smell of their signature barbecue dishes would have driven me insane had I attempted to dine on Friday. Located in a tiny house in Riverbend, it scores for off the beaten path and intimate dining room. You HAVE to have reservations. There are only about 12 tables.
Their food, which is quite reasonably priced, is Southern with a twist. My dining companion and I decided to go with their better known dishes: boudin balls; collard greens with grit fries; ribs with fried shallots, brisket with Parmesan garlic fries and (drum roll, please) Krispy Kreme bread pudding. All were wonderful. The biggest surprise were the collards which had a tangy, yet smoky, flavor. We shared the bread pudding. Loved this place. Recommend it highly.
The issue with this project is that once I find a restaurant I really like, I want to return to it all the time, which makes it hard to make progress on my "list." And, yes, this is a self-imposed rule which I means I can un-impose it at any time. As I did this morning when I returned to Elizabeth's for brunch. This was my third visit. But I can't resist their crabby eggs. Or their praline bacon. Or their best-I've-ever-had Bloody Mary's.
So what are the other places on my list? Well, the list keeps growing. It seems as soon as I cross one place off, I hear about someplace else I just HAVE to try. Sadly, a few places (Cafe Sbisa, Christians, Cuvee, Petunia's) shut their doors before I had the opportunity to try them. But here is "the list" as it stands as of today. Tomorrow, who knows ...
Coquette's
Domenica
Cochon
Bistro at Maison de Ville
Patois
August
Le Foret
Bistro Daisy
Three Muses
Feelings Cafe
MiLa
Matt and Naddie's
Gautreau's
Dante's Kitchen
Iris
Ste. Marie
Delmonico
La Provence (technically not in New Orleans, but it's been on the list a long, long time).
Anyone else have a recommendation, a review, an observation. Pile it on. I'll get to it eventually.
Since starting the project, I've dined (in no particular order) at: Camellia Grill, Lola's, Cafe Degas, Elizabeth's, Emerils, Bayona, Praline Connection, the Upperline, Bacco, Ralph's on the Park, Luke, Britgsen's, Stanley's, La Petite Grocery, Lilette, Herbsaint, Mr. B's, and now The Green Goddess and Boucherie.
I have yet to eat at a bad restaurant. Yes, I like some places better than others (and sometimes it is just because I ordered the wrong dish or the restaurant was too crowded or someone obnoxious at the next table put a damper on the occasion).
Good food for me is good food. I'm not a snob about location, celebrity chefs or price point. However, I am discovering that my favorite places are a little off the beaten path (as in not necessarily in the Quarter), neighborhood gems that are somewhat upscale (but not intimidatingly so) with small, intimate dining rooms reminiscent of a bistro in Paris. Does this surprise anyone that knows me?
The Green Goddess, though in the Quarter, still earns points for being hard to find; it's located on Exchange Place, the charming alley way located between the Louisiana Supreme Court and the Monteleone Hotel. It's also extremely intimate; plan on sitting outside and waiting for a table no matter how early you get there. The list of speciality drinks is impressive as is the cheese list.
The food is inventive and pairs some unusual flavors -- a soup with a watermelon, ginger base topped with avocado and crab meat, for instance. Some pairings work more successfully than others. I was a little hampered because it was Good Friday, the one day a year when I am an observant Catholic (I know it makes no sense), so I limited my options to vegetarian/seafood, and as is always the case, the meaty dishes were what sounded, looked and smelled appealing. But still it was a fun, funky, yummy experience. The chef (and the menu) are totally different at lunch and dinner so I may have to go back at lunch sometime (and not during Lent).
It's a good thing I saved Boucherie for Saturday because the smell of their signature barbecue dishes would have driven me insane had I attempted to dine on Friday. Located in a tiny house in Riverbend, it scores for off the beaten path and intimate dining room. You HAVE to have reservations. There are only about 12 tables.
Their food, which is quite reasonably priced, is Southern with a twist. My dining companion and I decided to go with their better known dishes: boudin balls; collard greens with grit fries; ribs with fried shallots, brisket with Parmesan garlic fries and (drum roll, please) Krispy Kreme bread pudding. All were wonderful. The biggest surprise were the collards which had a tangy, yet smoky, flavor. We shared the bread pudding. Loved this place. Recommend it highly.
The issue with this project is that once I find a restaurant I really like, I want to return to it all the time, which makes it hard to make progress on my "list." And, yes, this is a self-imposed rule which I means I can un-impose it at any time. As I did this morning when I returned to Elizabeth's for brunch. This was my third visit. But I can't resist their crabby eggs. Or their praline bacon. Or their best-I've-ever-had Bloody Mary's.
So what are the other places on my list? Well, the list keeps growing. It seems as soon as I cross one place off, I hear about someplace else I just HAVE to try. Sadly, a few places (Cafe Sbisa, Christians, Cuvee, Petunia's) shut their doors before I had the opportunity to try them. But here is "the list" as it stands as of today. Tomorrow, who knows ...
Coquette's
Domenica
Cochon
Bistro at Maison de Ville
Patois
August
Le Foret
Bistro Daisy
Three Muses
Feelings Cafe
MiLa
Matt and Naddie's
Gautreau's
Dante's Kitchen
Iris
Ste. Marie
Delmonico
La Provence (technically not in New Orleans, but it's been on the list a long, long time).
Anyone else have a recommendation, a review, an observation. Pile it on. I'll get to it eventually.
Friday, April 1, 2011
"Cats Are Like Me": Cats and Autism, Part II
Today is Autism Awareness Day and the beginning of Autism Awareness Month.
Long-time readers of this blog will remember that autism awareness was the subject of the very first post on The House Where the Black Cat Lives two (!) years ago.
I remain passionate about this topic, because like cat rescue and spaying and neutering, I know something about it. My 10-year-old niece lives with autism.
Increasingly, cats (and dogs and horses) are being used as therapy animals for children with autism. Today, I stumbled across this lovely story about how cats helped the author's son learn to communicate.
The part that made my eyes well up was when he said, "Cats are like me." I feel that way myself which makes me wonder if I, too, was touched, if ever so slightly, by the brush of autism.
Now if you read the story of the House Where The Black Cat Lives over on the right side of this page, you'll figure out that cats are unlikely to be my niece "N"'s therapy animal of choice. (Actual cats that is. She still loves drawing pictures of them.)
That said "cat" was among her early words, at a time when she was almost completely non-verbal. But that was before the infamous "black cat" incident. She is, however, fascinated by all things canine. And I have witnessed her blossom in the presence of a horse, grooming, mounting and riding it with a near-religious reverence.
N is coming to visit later in the month. Perhaps she and the cats will have a breakthrough. Perhaps not.
At the very least, I'll probably get a new drawing of the cats for my refrigerator.
Long-time readers of this blog will remember that autism awareness was the subject of the very first post on The House Where the Black Cat Lives two (!) years ago.
I remain passionate about this topic, because like cat rescue and spaying and neutering, I know something about it. My 10-year-old niece lives with autism.
Increasingly, cats (and dogs and horses) are being used as therapy animals for children with autism. Today, I stumbled across this lovely story about how cats helped the author's son learn to communicate.
The part that made my eyes well up was when he said, "Cats are like me." I feel that way myself which makes me wonder if I, too, was touched, if ever so slightly, by the brush of autism.
Now if you read the story of the House Where The Black Cat Lives over on the right side of this page, you'll figure out that cats are unlikely to be my niece "N"'s therapy animal of choice. (Actual cats that is. She still loves drawing pictures of them.)
That said "cat" was among her early words, at a time when she was almost completely non-verbal. But that was before the infamous "black cat" incident. She is, however, fascinated by all things canine. And I have witnessed her blossom in the presence of a horse, grooming, mounting and riding it with a near-religious reverence.
N is coming to visit later in the month. Perhaps she and the cats will have a breakthrough. Perhaps not.
At the very least, I'll probably get a new drawing of the cats for my refrigerator.
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