I kind of like the English word -- mogies. Maybe it's from reading so many murder mysteries written by Brits.

Pinky, Whiny, and Spotty, aka Goofy, Scardycat, aka Headcase, are siblings. Java is a Garbo cat. "I vant to be alone." And the latest additions, also sibs are Bonnie&Clyde (no spaces), kittens to fill in for dearly-departed Aggie.

Sometimes when I have trouble falling asleep (ha, ha, it's 2:30 and I'm on the computer), I start counting the dead ones... like counting sheep. Pigpen, Trouble, Felix, Ribbitz (Ribsie), Velcro, Aggie... oh shit, I know there are a couple more... but I'm not trying to fall asleep and I'm spacing them out.

People who say cats are aloof or are all alike just don't know much about cats. The thing about cats is it takes time to get to know them. "They're so spontaneous." Ha! They're as set in their ways and as predictable as clockwork. I'll explain...

I named the first three mentioned because it was my first chance to name kittens. Pretty creative, don't you think? They're three we kept from a litter on seven. The mom, "Judy", a calico backyard cat, yeah we feed several on the back porch, went to live on a farm, and the other four got palmed off various friends.

Pinky is an orange tabby, about 12~13 lbs. "Orangy" just didn't work. He's sweet but he only wants his pet-me-NOW-time on the kitchen island. That's it, no place else. When he wants his pets, he'll bump up to me and walk me to the island. There, I'll give him his ten minutes of shiatsu massage. Loves to have his fur rubbed the wrong way, and a deep, deep massage. He purrs like a 3-hp outboard motor.

Whiny started out as Whitey, part of Whitey, Whitey, Whitey, Pinky, Spotty, Dingy, and Smudge. (Should be pretty obvious.) But Whitey, as she grew older wasn't actually white, just whitish with orange-ish, or is it orangy, ears and tail... and blue eyes. But she is noisy, a real howler. We think her dad was a stray Siamese that loitered in the yard for a time, and that had fun-time with Judy. She's about half-way on the sane-nuts scale. She likes to be petted, but only in certain places in the house... and only if she can't see me petting her. That means getting led into the spare bedroom and her stuffing her head under the cedar chest. Then everything's Jake and I can proceed to give her her massage. (She too likes to have her fur "abused".)

Spotty is white with orange spots. She's the spitting image of her dad, another local cat that partook of the pleasures, but wanders the neighborhood much more freely. We only see him around from time to time -- not recently because there's no more woo-woo on the back porch. Spotty is stone-cold nuts. I'd say crazy or retarded but that's not really true (or very charitable). She normal, (cough, cough) but she's at the bottom of the totem pole here. She's sweet but oppressed. When one of the others gets a hair up its ass, she's the one who gets picked on, like the scrawny kid in the schoolyard. I can only pet her if I ambush her, or if I sneak up on her while she's asleep. I know this but I don't try because it upsets her.

We have a routine for when she wants to go out onto the Florida Room. She looks around to see who's available, or sits in front of the glass door to the Florida Room. I "hide" behind the glass, and she scoots out. We have a string of "sleigh bells" hanging on the door and they ring the bells to come back inside. Then if it's her that rang the bells, I hide again and she bolts past me.

Our house is two storeys. Java, a grey tabby of medium dimensions and short legs, aka Garbo, never came downstairs for her fist six years on planet Earth. She's grumpy but not aggressive, thank God. She doesn't have a "meow". It's more of a "squeak." She has a permanent scowl. And when she lets herself be petted, (she does want to be petted), it's like she's putting herself through an endurance test. "I want to be petted but I don't want you to touch me."

Two years ago we had half of the second floor finished (after twenty years of being here) -- sheetrock, paint, floor refinished, lights, the whole nine yards, and I built a 12'x20' library. The place was a mess for a couple of months. Java, disturbed by all the activity, decamped and moved downstairs. She hasn't been back up there since. This is a woman who is definitely set in her ways.

Bonnie&Clyde (no spaces), are grey tabbies. Bonnie is all grey, and Clyde has a white chin, white mittens, and a pink nose. They're aka The Hellions. I hesitate to call them The Monsters because that's what my mom called my brother and I when we were kids. It's such a joy to have little ones ripping around the house, knocking over plants, pulling the dishcloth off the oven handle, knocking over plants. Well, you get the idea -- kids. They're farm cats abandoned by their mom. When they arrived I could hold them both in one hand. They're both intensely loved, and little (so far) purr-mahines. They like to snore under our noses at night. I've been trying to ween Clyde from biting my chin for giggles.

Felix once had a $400 hairball. Cheap. The UofP vet hospital wanted $4000. Afterwards his fuzzy tummy smelled like fresh popcorn.

Ribsie was big. No, no I mean BIG. A grey and white tabby. He was de-clawed when he came to live with us. You know how tall a washing machine is? 36" When Ribsie wanted to jump up onto it, he'd hook his wrists on the edge and jump up. My legs would go to sleep when he slept in my lap.

Judy showed up pregnant. She had her one littler and went off to the ASPCA, like as many as we can trap, cajole, or bribe to make the trip. Last I heard she was enjoying the great outdoors at the farm immensely.

The whole house is strewn with cat toys, small empty boxes with paper in the bottoms as cat beds, and catnip bananas, not to mention heating pads in winter, and lights over their special pillows.

4:31AM -- The end

please meet Harli the First...

By far the friendliest and happiest woozle in any dog park. He would check every visitor out for playfulness and loved half-grown pups. He would try to get our pootie to run, but she was on to him, and wouldn't move. If it wasn't moving, he wasn't interested.

Lost him to a case of giardia picked up in an overcrowded dog park. Ten vets later, trying the same flagyl over and over, he died.

I still cry over him. We need to seriously look for a new rescue. He was the best.

Both seem to like me a LOT more than I think they should.