(Written Late September 2025)

I have loved eight cats during this lifetime, but I’ve only been owned by one.

I first met Major when I was about 5. He was a Phoenix neighborhood tuxedo cat, and we were about to move to Germany. I remember that I delighted in his regular visits and was traumatized by his gruesome death at the talons of an owl. Dad found him in a thorny pyracantha bush and lovingly protected me by taking Major to the vet. Over the years, I’ve created a picture in my head of a silent mass of fur, the flutter of wings, killing knarled claws, and orange berries. Major never came home. And I’ve never liked pyracantha bushes, but I’ve since come to appreciate owls. It was an early learning of the circle of life and the beginnings of a deep love for cats.

Precious was a kitten from a litter that my aunt’s Siamese cat blessed the family with. We went to visit them just before we moved to Germany, and my aunt said I could name the kitten and it would be mine, but they had to keep it with them while we lived in Germany. A sly move by my parents, who knew I was mourning Major’s death and that I really wanted a cat. Not too long after we moved, we received a letter from my aunt stating that they had renamed Precious, Sydney. The reason? Precious was fighting with the neighborhood German Shepherds and winning! The family thought Sydney was a better name. When I think of that handsome Siamese furball, I picture him as the head of some sort of neighborhood cat gang, marauding the streets looking to pick a fight with the biggest, meanest dogs they could find just to prove they were better, faster, smarter, and stronger. 

Beast came into my life in high school. She was an indoor/outdoor cat owned initially by a military coworker of my dad’s. My sister and I were told that the coworker had to go on a long trip and left Beast with us to cat-sit. It turned out that the long trip was a ruse, and they were actually being transferred to Alaska. Beast loved us, and we loved her, so, with her parent’s and our parent’s blessings, we kept her. She loved chasing lizards in the west Texas sun, and they loved leaving her their tails. Beast had a gentle heart and a nurse’s soul. She always knew just when to turn into a heating pad and just where to lie to help the aches go away. She lived into her late teens/early 20s and died of kidney disease. Our neighbor was my vet, and I trusted him to tell me when it was time for her to leave her earthly body. I was such a complete basket case; I didn’t feel comfortable going into the clinic to stay with her. My neighbor said he sat with her. Beast’s death devastated me, and it was a long time before I had cats in my life again.

Fred & Ginger were a birthday gift from my sister when I was in my late 20s. I was living in Chicago and really needed a pet in my life. She knew it, and I knew it. When we went to pick up one kitten, the facility encouraged us to think about taking two. This handsome orange tabby and beautiful, sleek black kitten were up on their hind legs dancing with one another when we saw them in their cage. One moment in my arms and I knew they were mine. And so we took them both. To honor their dancing partner beginnings, we named the orange tabby Fred and the black Burmese Ginger. It turned out that Fred had feline lupus and died before he reached the age of one. Ginger had been the shy one, and when Fred died, she took on some of his outgoing personality. We joked that she never forgot her Egyptian roots and seemed to delight in letting us know she was to be treated as royalty. We lovingly obliged.

Houston was one of my neighbor’s cats in Chicago. They lived in a one-bedroom apartment and had five cats. The two males started fighting all the time, so I said I would take the short-haired one for a few days just to give them some space. It wasn’t very long after Fred’s death, and after a few days, it was clear that Ginger enjoyed Houston’s company. My neighbors agreed and allowed me to keep him. Houston was built like a bulldog and had the coloring of a Russian Blue. Unfortunately, he was allergic to many things, including cat dander, and he was scared of almost everything. Ginger and Houston moved with me from Chicago to Albuquerque. When Robert and I fell in love, it became clear that I would need to give up both cats due to his severe allergies. Mom and Dad kept Houston, and Ginger spent the rest of her life with a lovely woman who was a member of the church I worked for at the time. She moved away shortly after adopting Ginger, but she would occasionally send me notes, letting me know how Ginger was doing. I believe Ginger lived into her early 20s. Houston’s allergies got the best of him and started causing him to have seizures. His quality of life was drastically diminished, and eventually Mom had to make the decision that is always impossible to make.

Robert and I were married for 12 years. As it became clear that he was dying, I read a book or an article on anticipatory grief that talked about imagining what a future without your loved one might look like. It encouraged me to think about doing something or making some slight change, something to look forward to after his death. At first, it sounded harsh, but after a while, I began playing with the idea and decided that I might consider having a cat in my life after Robert died. I wasn’t interested in rushing into anything. I just thought it might be a possibility. Two weeks after Robert died, my vet posted a picture of an orange tabby that had been saved from a kill shelter. Theo (Tay-o) came home with me a few days later, and I’ve been owned by him ever since.

Last fall, a friend posted that she had found a black kitten in her yard that she couldn’t keep. They named her Cleo Catra. She came for a visit on Thanksgiving weekend and never left. Very soon after she came, Theo started to have some health problems. He’s always been a small guy, probably the runt of the litter, and had always been a picky eater with certain foods really upsetting his system. But my stress levels at work and the stress of introducing a new cat magnified some of his health issues. After a multitude of tests and weeks of worry, it turned out he has IBS and with the care of an amazing vet, he now takes medicine twice a day that has made him more of himself. It hasn’t yet been a year, but Theo and Cleo seem to really enjoy one another’s company. They make Mom and I laugh. They bring us joy. We all take care of one another. 

Although Cleo is thankful to be fed, for the playtime, for the scritches, and for a warm body to sleep next to at night, my relationship with her focuses mostly on being her Mom. I am also Theo’s mom, but our relationship is different. He protects me. He comforts me. He keeps me on a routine. He knows my ups and downs. He feels my stress. And he seems to find his greatest comfort in my lap or when I’m walking around holding him. His purrs are healing. When he stares into my eyes, which he does regularly, there is a deeper connection than I’ve had with any of my other cats, and to be honest with most humans. He owns me and I delight in being owned. My relationship with Cleo might transform as the years go on, but I know that to have been owned by just one cat has been a rare gift.