Washington Cats

Today's edition of catblogging features denizens of my parents' house, past and present.


This is Brandy, my childhood cat. You can see had a regal air about him. This is the last photo I took of him. I happened to be in the yard with a camera, and he came out and stopped to look at the sunset.


Suzy Q, my grandmother's cat. A little, talkative thing. Here she's about 18 years old; she lived to be 20. Looks good for an old lady, doesn't she?


Lucy, my sister picked her out of a litter circa 1986-87. In my mind, she was named after "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds"; my sister may have another idea. One funny thing about Lucy is that she can't resist whistling. Even if she's trying to hide, if she hears you whistle she's compelled to come to you.


Sally. Mama cat. Our only cat who had kittens, fathered by the neighbor's cat named Tom. She was pretty independent, except once in awhile when she wanted petting she would go after your hand relentlessly until she was ready for a nap. We gave away three of her kittens, and kept two....


Bertie, my favorite. Named Bertha because she was the biggest in the litter. She had the softest fur, like a bunny. Although she also developed an unfortunate habit of drooling when being petted, it was hard to resist because her fur was so soft. That's the balancing of nature, I guess.


Ella, the recluse. She likes to spend most of her day in one quiet spot in the house, and if you seek her out to pet her or disturb her peace in any way she'll probably find a new spot the next day. My father says, however, that she will let him pet her and even likes it. So maybe there's just something wrong with the rest of us.


Sophie. She lived in my sister's apartment until her landlord finally discovered the illegal alien and laid down the law. So now she lives with our parents. Can you tell my sister likes torties?


Ravel in the snow. He was named Ravel because of the way he'd slink around in a way reminiscent of "Bolero." I adopted Ravel in my college town, but he couldn't make the move with me because he can't handle being indoors all the time. He can be a sweetie, but he can also be malicious and destructive when he's upset--say, when he can't go outside. Sorry, Mom. Maybe I can take him back when I move again and get a big yard. Meanwhile, at least he and Dad are good friends.