We shall return to your scheduled, possibly incendiary post on Sunday, but today I’m introducing you to some of the reasons why I write — or at least the reasons I write for money.
Heinlein said that he wrote to feed his family, including his cats. Well, the same is true here, though my husband makes most of the money for “feeding.” I make vaccination, surgery after getting out and getting run over by a car, medicines and replace the sofa they had a p*ss war over money. However, these are still some of the family members who keep me working.
This is D’Artagnan. He thinks his name is “Little Cat” which is kind of endearing as he tips the scales at close to eight pounds. Mind you, that makes him the lightest male in the house, which is not saying much when the house contains 
Euclid and Havelock. D’Artagnan wandered in at all of eight weeks, at the beginning of a Colorado snow storm. It was Marshall’s birthday and the guys were unloading groceries. D. rubbed on their legs, walked in, ate the chow, cuddled with Euclid. He’s been with us every since. His nose turns INTENSELY pink when he’s done something wrong, leading to his nickname, “Monsieur de pink nose.” H
is names include butter pat (he feels like one.)
I’ve done a pastel portrait of Monsieur de Pink Nose.
This is Euclid (psst, the one on the left.) He’s a beautiful black cat and weighs fourteen or fifteen pounds. If we could just convince him to stop pulling all the hair off his legs and belly, he’d be gorgeous. (And yeah, we’ve checked for allergies, we’ve tried kit
ty valium. Nothing works. As far as we can tell he thinks he’s a poodle. Also, valium exacerbates his alien-tail syndrome. He’ll fight his tail for twenty minutes and lose. It’s sad. And funny. But mostly sad.)
This is Havelock Vetinari Hoyt when we got him. As you can tell he was a sorry sight. He was living on our favorite mini golf course (yes, we play mini golf. We’re very thirties-retro) as far as we can tell living from bugs and feature water. He was also getting chased and hit with clubs because he messed people’s plays and some teen males (not mine) are dangerous idiots. I do a lot of cat rescue. we couldn’t resist. Besides, since he seems to be a Turkish Angora we thought some family MUST be looking for him.
And, as you see, his family found him. Or… er… he found us. He’s still a very good cat, and tries to talk back if you talk to him. But he’s clearly no longer a lost waif.
This is Miranda, who is helping us bring up our younger son, as you see.
Here you see her holding is wallet and wondering if he REALLY needs another video game. She’s a Cornish Rex and the only cat we ever paid money for. She’s a little smarter than the others and rules us all.
Yes, yes, one Rex to rule them all…
No, the Caturday post is not a normal feature. Yes, I will try to update later in the day with something mroe… grown up. But right now I’m feeling queasy (you know you shouldn’t watch news in the morning!) and I’m going to get tea.
According To Hoyt 
They are adorable! Now you’ve got me all soft and mushy and having kitteh-yearnings. sigh. Kittens. sigh.
Thank you for sharing these!
You might consider a vet visit for Euclid. My black did the same thing until he was diagnosed with hypothyroidism. Some medication took care of that, and he was never bothered again.
Love the concept of Caturday. My black-and-white, Muppet, stares at me and says, “Isn’t that every day?”
Deb,
He’s been examined from every possible angle (that one too) including staying at the vets for two weeks for examination. When I say my money goes to vet bills, I mean… it really does. Our cats normally live to their twenties, because they get better care than we do. I think we bought our vet’s porsche for him.
As far as we can tell, Euclid is just insane. The tablets get a little less pulling-of-hair to happen, OTOH they get him acting like a total loon, including chattering to himself and fighting his tail. He is, btw, the inspiration for Pythagoras (Peesgrass) in Dipped, Stripped and Dead and A French Polished murder.
Oh, another cat person! I use my cats on my Sixty Is Just The Beginning Blog. It’s hard to resist a rescue!
I like cats. Cats like me. I refuse to live with another cat because I can do the math: my age + a cat’s anticipatable. lifespan = an age too old to deal with the trauma of deciding whether ’tis kinder to put the beast down.
This causes some sadness, offset by the memories of cleaning litterboxes and serving canned food every morning (exacerbated by the annual debate over whether daylight saving time meant cats had to wait an extra hour for breakfast. Also, I can still vividly recall our last cat’s sitting in my lap so long that I’d lose feeling in both legs.
Another Sucker, er, Adoptive Fur parent 🙂
My wife says I’m a total pushover. She’s right.
Wayne
I think we have neon sign over our house that says “suckers”. Even strange, stray dogs will come to me…