THE BECATS

In the beginning, there was Blackie the Cat.
        And Blackie the Cat begot no heirs, and for many years was succeeded by only a series of temporary cats on holiday from their usual of residences.  Then, when the end of the second decade was drawing near, and summer was upon us, arrived the cat Amy.  And Amy was a black cat, of Persian descent, graceful, and golden-eyed.  And Amy begat (excuse me: only males beget) becat the Muffins:   two girls, one of which came to be known as Muffin, and two boys, who came to be known as The Boys.  All were as black and sleek as small panthers, and as soft and charming as starry nights in tropical isles.  Of these four Muffins, one girl was called by tragedy to cross the bridge from life to life, and was with us no more.  And in her place came Elsie, small, black,shy, and lame, who appeared at the grave of the deceased kitten in the mist of the dawn of the second day.  And in time Elsie becat Elsie's Cat, and Elsie's Other Cat Thomas, both black cats, as had become tradition in their line.  And Muffin broke with tradition and becat Brown, Charcoal, and Fuzzy Gray.  During these days a cat not of this lineage also came to dwell with us, and he was called The Yellow Cat.

Of all cats, The Yellow Cat purred longest and loudest, loved most to put his arms around the necks of his humans and nestle his head beside theirs, and was the most trusting and forgiving of all creatures.  And eventually The Yellow Cat, who was of mature years, placed himself upon his litter box to die, purring, with trust and forgiveness in his kind eyes.  And in that same season Elsie's Cat becat two more Blacks and two more Grays, none of whom were to receive their individual names before being stolen in the night by a neighbor, along with their entire pride (who at this time numbered thirteen in all), from the bush under which they slept together in peace.  And for a time I wanted no more cats... and no more neighbors.

THE ADVENT OF WHISKERS AND THE EARLY WHISKERIAN ERA

        On a winter night when frost hung in the still air, and the snow-covered, frozen world lay dormant, a voice cried from the great wasteland of the back yard:  "Meow! Meow!"  (Is there anyone who will save me? Am I to die this night, hungry and alone?)"  And so came the cat Whiskers, feral and afraid, her fear of humans overcome by her great need.  And through that long winter I fed her and gave her a box to sleep in, and she came to know that I would do her no harm.  And at the end of the following summer, I took Whiskers with me to a new home, where she was gray tiger of the house.  And Whiskers becat long-haired black and white Earnest, gray and white snowshoe-style Claude, and brown tabby and white Alice, Alexander, and Tiger Lily.  And Whiskers' years would number sixteen; greater than any of her progeny.

LATE AND POST WHISKERIAN ERAS AND THE REIGN OF AMBER I

        And it came to pass that I brought the cat Whiskers a thousand miles to yet another new home.  As the years passed in this place we shared yard, food, and water with many wandering or neighboring cats.  Of those who stayed were:   The Clean Cat, The Face Cat, The Calico Cat; Orange Baby, child of the calico, who played peek-a-boo around the giant oak tree, and was yet too small to survive falling into the pool on a crisp and fateful fall day when the water was frigid and no one was at home to see; and Sam the Apricat.

There were also those we adopted:

Napoleon, abandoned Siamese, fierce and loyal only to me, German Shepherd of felines, who growled at my husband when they were alone together; Elizabeth, tiny and delicate silver Himalayan, never healthy yet always happy, who before her untimely death gave birth to Amber, thick-furred, short-tailed amber tabby with amber eyes, and to mischievous, amber-eyed tuxedo, Purl.  Eventually, of all of these dear friends, only Amber remained;

and Amber remained an only cat (which suited her well) all the years of her life, until in her fifteenth year she became tired, so tired, and death took her gently one summer night.


THE CURRENT ERA, A.K.A. THE MAINE COON ERA

        Thus ended The Becats; and a time of waiting ensued.  Always, always the cats had come.  Wherever I had lived, throughout all of my life, the cats had come.  Was I less patient, less trusting, as the catless fall and winter passed, to think that a cat would not come?  (And in fact, a cat did come eventually; but that, my dears, is Another Story.)  In the early spring of a thus-far catless year, and (strangely enough) none being available at either the animal shelter or the Humane Society when the time came to call, I did what I had never done before:  I bought cats!  Large kittens of Noble Birth, costing Big Bucks! 

Let their stories remain to be told another day, as they are still unfolding, and your eyes are growing tired.  Suffice it to say that they were as they are, Celeste and Camille (may their whiskers grow long and their tummies never go without), and they are Maine Coons.  They are also sometimes known by various aliases:

          They are fond of the computer, Celeste especially enjoying a roll on the keyboard when I am doing actual work (although she now finds it hard to fit herself into so relatively small a space for a full-grown Coon girl), and Camille especially enjoying surfing the Web from the back of my chair.

HERE ENDS THE TELLING OF THIS TAIL.

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