When I was younger I had...a maximum of 22 cats I think at one time. Now that I write that down it sounds far too big though. I definitely had 15 at one point, I'm sure of that. My brother would often referred to them as my army of cats. He consistently accused me of attempting world domination with my small army of malnourished felines.
To be clear I didn't decide to build some obscene collection of cats, it just sort of happened.
It started off with a couple of stray, unfriendly cats that would hang around our farm. My Dad encouraged their presence because they were an extremely effective method of pest control. When I took to feeding them leftover food I began the slow process of gaining their trust. Felix, the first cat I named, was quite old as cats go and had clearly been through a lot of hardship in her life at the hands of humans. It took nearly an entire summer before she'd even let me close enough to touch her. She was an awfully wary individual, with watchful eyes and some of the sharpest claws that I've ever felt pierce my skin. But slowly, so painfully slowly she learned to regard me as a neighbour that you are not particularly close to but you know you can always go to them for help if anything were to happen.
Felix had kittens at the end of that first summer and like Danielle has described they are just a bundle of cuteness and fur. Not to mention so adorably trusting. The appearance of Macavity, Midnight and Cuddles (don't judge me I was, like, nine) was a major stepping stone to becoming the loyal and trusted comrade of Felix, their mother.
Looking back I understand why my brother viewed my past-times with such disdain. It's hardly usual for a kid to have a dozen cats come running to her full belt after whistling the first note of The Irish Washerwoman. Still I loved them and I think in some weird animal, dependent way they loved me too.
One of my best memories was one Halloween when I was eleven I think. There was a costume competition being held at my local library and myself and my friend decided to enter. Originally I was going to dress up as a witch, the Roald Dahl kind, with fake claws, bald head, blue saliva, the whole lot. Then my friend announced that she was going to go as that as well. Obviously we couldn't both turn up like that - worst case scenario we'd have to share the prize. Unthinkable for eleven year old Kate. So I changed my costume to the traditional witch, hat and broomstick type. With one vital detail that would make me stand out from all the other young witches. I also had a black cat.
As I humoured my friend telling her she was bound to win I was secretly confident that with this original twist of mine I had the game in the bag.
Chubby (a clear indicator of my developing irony), was a scrawny, runt of a kitten if ever I've seen one. As light as a drumstick and as fluffy as a split pillow, he was my golden ticket. I presented myself to the judges with a wide-eyed, terrified kitten sitting in my witches hat. I was just as terrified as him.
Needless to say I won. The judges were amazed, my friend was inconsolably jealous (served her right stealing my idea and not even doing it well) and all the other kids were enthralled by my pet. (FYI that brief hour of fame was unbearable. I mean people actually wanted to talk to me.)
Okay this has gone on long enough.
Kate
MISSION................................................................COMPLETED
p.s. chubbie pooped in my hat.
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