Our Cats...

Barbra
1987 when Kenneth and I were out riding his motorcycle down a country road.  "There's a kitten!" Kenneth said, slowing the bike down and turning around.  He slowly pulled over to the side of the road.  There, coming up from out of the ditch was a very small cream-colored kitten with a white belly and white feet. As the kitten climbed up our pants legs, I picked her up into my arms and held her close to me.  There was no question but we were taking her home with us.  Kenneth started up the bike and I held her behind his back.  A short way up the road, she started squirming and wanting to crawl up his back.  I tried to hold her but she was very determined, so I let her go.  She crawled up over Kenneth's shoulder and wanted to ride up front where she could see where she was going.  And there she sat, the wind blowing her ears and whiskers back.  All she needed was a white scarf around her neck. After we got home with her, I looked at her trying to decide on a name for her.  She had a rather long nose, so I decided to call her Barbra, after Barbra Streisand, who, incidentally, is my very favorite singer.  Later on, Kenneth and I were chuckling about this crazy kitten that liked to ride on the motorcycle.... and she became "Crazy Barbra".

Much later I got the opportunity to be an over-the-road truckdriver, and after my first month of running team, I began to drive solo.  My first trip home after going solo, I decided that I wanted to take Crazy Barbra on the road to keep me company. For the first 4 days, she stayed back in the sleeper, never daring to come out. Slowly, she began to get brave enough to venture out into the cab of the truck.  She'd sit on the motor box as we drove down the highway.  Soon, she began to sit in the passenger's seat, and gradually became more and more at ease with life on a truck. On occasion, we'd get a motel room, and then she really blew off steam!  She'd race and tear all over the room, up and over furniture, running as fast as she could, getting the exercise she was unable to get in the confines of our truck cab.  Next morning, she'd be ready to get back on the road.  I'd carry her out to the truck, open the door, and she'd leap right up into it.  She loved trucking!
 Sometimes we had to have work done on the truck.... preventive maintenance, or some repairs.  Since we had a cabover style truck, the cab had to be tipped over frontward to gain access to the engine, etc.  Barbra would crawl under the blanket in the sleeper and stay there, tipped over at a 45-degree angle.  Both doors on the truck could be left wide open, and she'd never try to jump out.  People would ask me, "Aren't you afraid she might jump out?"  And I'd reply, "You couldn't DRAG that cat out of there.... that’s her home."

 Barbra was very jealous of other drivers.  There was time out in Pennsylvania, when I was standing outside our truck talking with another driver.  Barbra sat at the window staring down at me and very vocally telling me to get back in our truck with her where I belonged.  The other driver was rather amused when I told him my "mother" was telling me to come in now.
 Finally, Barbra started riding up on the dash of the truck.  One day we were pulled in for a D.O.T. check in Colorado.  The trooper was standing in front of our truck, writing down the license plate number, when he glanced up at the windshield.  He said in a very serious tone, "I see you have an attack-trained puma."  I smiled and said, "Yes, I do."  So from then on, I called her that frequently.

 In September of 1994, I got injured while driving, so Barbra and I had to give up our trucking career(s) and stay home.  But we remembered all the fun and good times we had together on the truck, traveling cross-country, just her and me.  We did make a car trip the following summer up to St. Paul, Minnesota, to see my dear friend Jean.  But after that, no more traveling for us.  We sat around growing old together.  She was a daily fixture on my lap as I watched TV.  She was my best bud. 

 A few months ago, I noticed that she was starting to look old.  After all, I told myself, she's 77 now in cat years.  She also started throwing up daily, so I took her to the vet.  At that time the vet suspected a possible tapeworm mass in her intestines because she could feel a hard mass in her abdomen.  We treated her for tapeworms, put her on antibiotics, and I was instructed to bring her back in a month for a follow-up.  I took her for the follow-up, and the mass was still present.  The vet said the next step was exploratory surgery, so we made an appointment, and I took her over again the next night for surgery the following day. When Dr. Merry called and said "cancer", I went numb all over and my eyes welled up with tears.  I knew what was coming.  After she explained my options, we agreed that the best thing for Barbra's sake would be euthanasia.  My voice would hardly speak as I whispered to Dr. Merry to go ahead, and I'd come over to pick her up and bring her back home.

 The tears flowed freely as my handyman, Richard, drove me over to the vet's.  Dr. Merry had her wrapped in a towel when I got there, her beautiful face still showing uncovered, and her eyes closed as if asleep.  I took her in my arms and brought her home.  Over the years, whenever I left either the truck or the house, I'd always tell her, "Baba, guard....Mama be back."  When I'd come back, I'd tell her, "See....Mama be back."  She knew what I was saying.  She understood English very well.  When I had left her at the vet's, I said, "Mama be back."  And when I held her still little body in my arms, looking down at that beautiful big nose, I said, "See....Mama be back."
Richard dug a grave for her out in the front yard by the driveway.  I knelt down and placed the little body wrapped in a towel into it, covering the beautiful face with the Streisand nose.  I wished her a speedy journey across the Rainbow Bridge to the Summerland.

Now all I have are our memories.  But oh, what wonderful memories they are!  I can still see that mad look when I was in the other truck.  I can still see the attack-trained puma sitting up on the dash.  I can still feel the warmth on my lap where she lay.  Swift journey, my Barbra, my best bud.  Someday we'll meet again.  I love you very, very much!
 
Summer

Bagel
This is my cat, Bagel. She has many nicknames. Bagel Chips, Chip, Tater, Tater Chip, Momma, Play Kitty, the list goes on. She drools sometimes when she is extra happy when she's being petted. She LOVES the smell of Icy Hot, etc. She is the sweetest girl in the world! She is a tortoise shell.  The picture of her is the pose she does constantly that we call "Play Kitty" or "Sausage Girl",

Sakura
My name is Ketira shena Pretara'sedrin and this is about my cat Sakura - my antidepressant. How can she be that? Read on....I am a Floridian, but have tried to live on my own in other states without success. I've always been hyperactive, but it wasn't until I was 32 that I was formally diagnosed with ADHD (Attention Deficit Disorder with Hyperactive tendencies). Because of this "crazy condition" I tend to get depressed for various reasons, including for no reason at all. In 2000 I moved back to Florida with my parents to help them around the house, and because I really didn't have any reason to stay where I was. Before the first real cold snap of the year (when temperatures get down below 40F), I saw Sakura, and something told me that if I didn't bring her inside she would die soon, as most feral cats do. She wouldn't let me get near her until I got some cheese and managed to grab her. As you can see she's obviously Siamese. I think someone dropped her off in the area to abandon her, but you know the old adage: "It's not you who owns the cat, but the cat who owns you.” She decided that my parents & I were to be her new "family" and has stayed with me ever since. So why is she my antidepressant? I have found that I have less attacks of depression than I did before Sakura, and since my psychiatrist agrees, I know that I will always have at least one cat for the rest of my Life.

Ralph
While serving as the head of a track greyhound adoption group, I approached a shelter I had worked with for many years and asked if they might have an unadoptable cat who would be bold enough to serve as a "test" cat to determine whether the greyhounds could safely live with small animals. Staff members exchanged glances and, as one, said "Ralph!" This 22-pound grey tabby had been a resident of the shelter for three years. Brought in as a "biter," they did not feel they could safely adopt him out, yet they did not have the heart to euthanize him thanks to his personality and his "catitude." For me, it was love at first sight. Ralph turned out to be the perfect choice, as he could sense whether a greyhound would be his friend or his enemy. With the dogs that had no desire to chase or kill him, Ralph would rub up against them. Those with a high prey drive got a quick whack across the nose from this very astute cat. He was never wrong. Ralph lived in the kennel where we kept the greyhounds awaiting adoption. He often had the run of the office and quickly learned how to open the drawer where his treats were kept, making it difficult to control his weight. Following my retirement from the organization, Ralph again was in need of a "home," since my successors were afraid of him. Yes, he would bite, but his body language gave ample warning that he wanted to be left alone. We took Ralph home where he quickly established himself as the alpha, keeping our seven dogs in line. When we adopted a young cat a couple of months later, thinking Ralph might like some feline companionship, his initial reaction was that this newcomer did not exist. That changed suddenly when two of the dogs started to chase her up the stairs. Ralph leaped over them, landing on a step above them, and put up his paw like a traffic cop. The dogs immediately gave up the chase. From then on, Ralph was the newcomer's protector and best friend. When we lost him to cancer it left a void in our household that can never be filled. Another cat has moved in, but can not and will not take Ralph's place as the leader of our pack.

Barbara

Annie
My name is Frankie, and I live in PA. Orphan Annie came into our life in April of 2001.  She was only about 5 weeks old when my husband found her in a junkyard and brought her home to me.  She was so small, she fit into the palm of his hand.  She wasn't supposed to be an indoor cat, but she eventually "snuggled" her way into our hearts and our home! She's not like any cat I've ever had.  She loves people, and when we have company, she thinks they came just to see her!  Every "NON" cat person who has ever come to visit us in the last 8 years has been won over by her charming personality!

George
We adopted my cat George from the Animal Rescue League of NH after my cat Grim passed away from Feline Leukemia. He's important to me because he gives so much but asks for so little. All he needs is fresh food & water and a warm place to sleep. Of course King George gets a lot more than just the basics. He always seems to know when I need someone. He's my little piece of furry sanity in this crazy world. He's dependable; he doesn't judge, and he loves unconditionally. Animals are important to us and I think a lot of people don’t realize that.

Bella
In June my husband and I decided to go and take a look at the county animal shelter in Bakersfield, California. We had lost a kitten not too long before and we thought we might find another kitty who truly needed a good home to add to our family. There was just something about a sad looking little kitten that touched my heart, and we brought Bella home. We took her into the vet the following morning, and he was quite upset to discover that her spaying incision was infected. He prescribed an antibiotic, which we gave to her every day for almost two weeks. Almost immediately she began to perk up, and to our great joy she has developed an amazing personality, getting into everything and making us laugh more times than we can possibly count. We discovered that our little shelter kitty is classified as a "Snowshoe" and she definitely behaves like one, always getting into mischief. About a week ago she decided to "explore" the fireplace.  All of a sudden I had a black cat instead of a Snowshoe! I was concerned that she might groom herself and ingest the soot, so I immediately plopped her into the kitchen sink and, using some cat shampoo I had on hand, proceeded to give her a much-needed bath. She was definitely not happy with this operation, but my beautiful Bella re-emerged afterwards, and spent several hours sunning herself in the bedroom window to dry. She is truly our miracle kitty and has made fast friends with our older cats as well. I can't imagine our home without her!

Big Foot
We didn't adopt him - he adopted US. There he was one morning, sitting on
the back fence, a handsome tuxedo cat with a big pink nose. I said, "What
are you doing here?" and he strolled over leisurely with a casual
"Merowwwwww." After loitering at the back door for several days he was
amenable to being picked up, promptly going limp and surrendering to
vigorous face-rubs and chin-scratchings. It was then that I noticed his
front feet: they were HUGE. He is a polydactyl cat, with six toes on one
front paw and SEVEN on the other! I immediately named him Big Foot.
Fast-forward 2 years: Mr.Big Foot, now neutered, is part of our cat clan.
The others are 15, 13 and 4 years old. BF is the youngest of the group and
regards everything as a potential cat toy. He seemed particularly fond of a
whip from our Halloween-prop box, and posed for a picture.

Weapon X
Me and some co-workers were outside on cold winter night when this tiny emaciated kitten came to us. The Kitten was starved, cold, and was begging for love. All we had was bologna in the work fridge so we gave that to her and she grabbed it and ran. The next day the kitten was back. I went to the store and bought some kitten food. I didn't particularly want a pet, but I figured this tiny kitten needed some food. After a few weeks she managed to wrangler her way into our office. She would meow to go out and do her business and never needed any training. It couldn't have been 2 months yet and I came to the back door to feed her. I found her meowing horribly, blood everywhere. I thought she had been hit by a car: it looked like there were guts pouring out of her. I grabbed her picked her up and had a co-worker rush us to the nearest vet. I didn't buy this cat, it wasn't even mine, but she was afraid and confused. I was too, maybe more than her.. I got her to the vet and the vet said that she was in the process of aborting her kittens, and that she was too young, too malnourished, to have them. She said that it would cost $400 to get her up to speed, and alot less to put her down. I had never had a life put before me in with a price tag. I didn't have the money. I called in every debt I was owed and within an hour had the money for the proceedure. I work in a creative graphics environment and we named her Weapon X but I think everyone really just calls her "Kitty". When the office closed I took her home and she has been my roomate ever since. I know that whatever I do in life, I have done one truly good thing, because she is a happy, well cared for, cat.