The Power of Purrs: Reflections on a Life with Cats

Excerpt:

. . . Suddenly, the spell is broken. Not by a blaring car horn or a cranky garbage truck hoisting barrels over whining belts and chugging cylinders, but by a surging collage of thumps and gallops growing out of the back of the house. I always try to ignore it, but theres no defense against these mischievous stirrings, no covers thick enough to hide under, no bedroom door solid enough to step this restless, impatient tide. Soon, these furry conquistadors will spill into the hallway and lay siege to our bedroom. We try our best to turn them away, but theres just no stopping the cats that want breakfast.

            Through sleepy grunts and sluggish groans, my wife and I reach for anything within an arms length of our nightstands. Within moments, the air in our once tranquil bedroom is filled with slippers, socks, pillows, Kleenex boxes, and small inspirational books. Its a noble display, but the cats know thats it just a matter of time before our paltry cache runs dry. They deftly sidestep our half-hearted barrage and press onward. Soon, theyll be on the bed, marching up the entire length of our pajamed bodies. Twitchy tails will swish beneath noses, whiskers will tickle cheeks, and toothy incisors will rub against stubbled chins. If we refuse to surrender, the troops will split up. Valuable glass items will be pushed to the edge of dresser tops, phones will be pulled off hooks, and mini-blinds will be systematically dismantled. If those tactics fail to swing our feet to the floors, theres always Cielo, our cat despising fox terrier and sleeping companion. No better way to propel us towards the kitchen than with a spinning, snarling, predawn brawl on the end of the bed.

            Once Im up, the offensive is immediately called off. The battle has been won, this particular mornings war is over and I, the defeated battleship, am carefully escorted to the kitchen by a now gracious flotilla of whiskered tugboats. When Im safely in port, they strategically disperse and reposition themselves on counters and breakfast bars and quietly wait for doors to open and silverware drawers to slide out. The familiar metallic puff of the can opener and my slow, wristy grind around a fresh serving of ocean whitefish signals the end of another successful ground campaign but victory will not be secured until all dishes have been filled and cans scooped clean.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Sweet Kitty

Timothy

Cokie

Lady Grey

Charlotte

Quiche Lorraine

Rainbow

Rosemary

Mitten

Brooks and Dunn

Midnight

Lucy

Spencer

Epilogue

About the Author