Hemingway’s Cats

I understand that a love for cats has always been associated with creatives. I read somewhere that Mark Twain, TS Elliot, Charles Dickens and William Butler Yeats were fond of felines.

I’ve had cats since I was a small child. My grandmother, Posey, always kept a cat in the Riverdale House. Clancy and Mittens were two of her favorites. My father had Beethoven, a Calico that sat with him in the kitchen for most of his retirement and who loved to sit on the kitchen table and press his forehead into my father’s, like they were sharing secrets telepathically.

My favorite black cat, my familiar, Lucky, made the trip with me from the Bronx to Berthoud and loved the freedom of investigating Casa Claire for a few years before she passed at approximately 15 years of age.

Those five readers that have followed this blog know all about Smokey, the grey longish hair feral cat that hangs out in Jack the Spruce Magic Grotto.

In the past few weeks, another stray, who I call Whitey has been hanging around to such an extent that I now place two dishes of food out a few times each day just to make sure he gets his nourishment. This morning I saw whitey exiting Smokey’s bomb shelter, so maybe they are a couple. Slick bastard. Props.

Recently, another grey and white cat has been coming around – although more sporadically. I call him Batman because of the mask on his eyes and ears.

Although he’s not a regular, yet, I may need to invest in another bomb shelter to put out under JTS before it gets cold again.

I’m also going to have to keep an eye out to see if any of these felines are hyperdactyly. That would be the ultimate sign from God that I’m on the right track.

Well, as you can see I’m easing myself back into the daily blogs.

You fine, five readers make today a great one!