There are cat people.
And there are people who prefer animals to people. My Great Aunt Fedalma, or Feddy Lorretti, as I called her the last year of her life, fit the last two categories to a tee.
This woman in my genetic pool was so complex an entire book should be dedicated to her and her idiosyncrasies; but I won’t tackle that one. Hopefully, someone in the family will. Lord knows there is a wealth of wacko for them to delve into.
But one of the most interesting aspects about this creative and aloof woman was her deep love of her feral cats.
Yes, my Great Aunt liked it wild!
For those of you dog peeps who might not be familiar with feral cats – they’re freaking crazy banshees from the wild – even though they might resemble cute house cats.
Fedalma didn’t have lions, or tigers or pumas (insert joke here) in her 500 square foot shack hiding in the small town of Baldwin City, KS. She had too many longhaired cats to count. But each one had a body full of burrs, stickers and tangles. They were the kind of cats that you could scare a small child into thinking it was a guard dog or gargoyle.
I’m not sure they ever cuddled with my aunt, but she called them sweet names like “Peanut” and “Angel.” Like I mentioned…she was a tad off.
We only visited her a few times a year and I don’t remember ever getting a good look at any of her cats. They would run off like Animal Control was chasing them with a net and a cage.
But they had no reason to fear, because Aunt Fedalma cherished those cats with every fiber of her irrational self. Just like our crazy aunt, the rest of our family has always had cats. That doesn’t qualify us to all be crazy, mind you. We all have had to earn that title on our own merit.
When I was young, we had a dog for two weeks, but don’t ask – it’s a touchy subject and my brother and I aren’t sure of the accuracy of the details of his exit. I’m sure Randy has a lovely home now – or did. I don’t think dogs live to be 30 years old.
My hubby, on the other hand, grew up with dogs and much to my dismay prefers the big dog variety. The large, slobbery, faithful dog that leaves heated packages around the neighborhood, which you are required to pick up with your hand in a thin baggie.
Not my bag. I am an ex-poop toucher and plan to remain that way for the remainder of my life.
Unlike the hubby, I enjoy a small dog; but hubby will not hear of it. Something about yipping all the time and not shutting up – so we went with the obvious compromise…
Once again, my family tree resembles a feline scratching post. The kind with branches, ‘kay! GAH!!
So when I heard that Not Your Mother’s Books was publishing another anthology on cats, I thought, “Hey, I love that show!!!”
Then I wrote an essay, which was just chosen to be in the new book, “NYMB…on Cats,” which will be out in September 2014.
I’m thrilled to be in another book by Publishing Syndicate. My first one was in NYMB…on being a Parent (September 2013).
I’d love to hear about your cat that pees in the tub or the feline that climbs into the tall cabinets, opens the box of Cheez-its and helps herself or the one that only pooped in the fichus tree. Good times!!
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