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My blog profile used to say that we had three cats. Now it says two. When we moved here, my blue-eyed AngelBoy (my beautiful, prissy, super-fussy Birman who made many appearances in this blog) did not take well at all to the new surroundings.

I truly think he missed the old house, he missed his screen-porch, he missed his usual routine. In this house, the cats have a new domain-- the TV room, which has a huge bathroom "en suite," as the realtor called it. Our TV room used to be the master bedroom for the previous owners of this house. The cats have free run of that room, plus when I open the door to the TV room, and close the doors to the hallway and the dining room, they can also roam around the kitchen and the breakfast room. That "en suite bathroom" is now the litter box room for our cats.

Well, the new terrain just wasn't enough for AngelBoy. He wanted to once again feel the breeze on his white whiskers, I guess, because he would sit by the doors in the TV room and meow his blue-eyed heart out. I tried to explain that the porch didn't have screens..... he looked at me with that "Well, why in heaven's name NOT?!" (A look that I had come to know quite well over the past thirteen years with that cat.)

With each passing week in this house, AngelBoy reverted to his old habits--- habits which made us keep him on the screen-porch of the old house for most of his life with us. And when he wasn't on the screen-porch, he was in the laundry room, just to keep him away from carpeting, and hopefully avoid his mind-boggling "accidents" in the corners of all the carpeting.

Of course, this TV room here had carpeting, wouldn't you know. And no, we had no immediate plans to take up that nearly-new carpeting, either. And AngelBoy christened it many times during the first four weeks that we were here. Out came the carpet cleaner, out came the brushes and the sponges, and that blue-eyed beautiful cat of mine would watch me clean up the mess. ("Pardon me for saying so, but you missed a spot right there.") There were days when I would have gladly booted his little blue-eyed, whiskered butt right out the door. We have twenty-three acres here.... I would have lost him for sure, if not to coyotes, then to one of the huge hawks flying around looking for the neighbors' chickens.

But you can't do that with a de-clawed Birman who has been an inside cat for thirteen years. Especially with his fussy, prissy little attitude, which would have resulted in him getting beaten up by the wild rabbits here, not to mention the coyotes and the hawks. He was not a "street-cat," he was a "Where is my blue pillow and blanket-type of prissy cat." And everything had to be blue.... his food dish, his blanket, his little pillow, his litter box. Did he know that he was color-coordinating all of his accessories with his eyes, which were bluer than blue?

On the last night of AngelBoy's existence here, I caught him sniffing the carpeting in a corner of the TV room. I jumped up and told him "Use your box, AngelBoy--- use that BOX!!" And that cat knew exactly what I was talking about because I had said that so many times over the years--- when he heard the word "box," he would walk into his litter box and use it. Not that night, however. He did walk into his litter box, though, and he turned around and stuck his head out from the opening, and he looked at me. I really thought he was using his box, and when he came out, I told him what a wonderful blue-eyed boy he was. Then I opened the box to clean it, and there was nothing in there but litter. Into the TV room I went, and there was AngelBoy, doing his business in the corner.

I lost it. I was so exhausted by the move that I just lost it. I picked him up and just shoved him into his litter box, telling him how bad, bad, bad he was. He meowed and cried, and just looked at me. And I cried too. And then I went upstairs and told my husband that I just couldn't cope with "that cat" anymore. He knew, of course, which cat I was talking about. We've never had such problems with the others.

We talked about the options. Find a new home for him? Who is going to take a 13-yr-old cat who sniffs around the corners of carpeting looking for a soft place to squat down? Make him an outside cat? He isn't even smart enough to stay away from cars, to come in out of the rain, and he can't even climb a tree anymore to get away from another animal who might see him and decide that a Birman might make a good dinner.

We called the local vet. He asked me all sorts of questions, the final one being "How long has he been acting this way?" When I told him "Twelve out of his thirteen years with us," he gave us his office hours and told us to come in.

So we did. I could barely look into those blue eyes of his before we left. This beautiful fluffy lavender-point Birman-- how could something so lovely have so much of the devil in him? On the way to the vet's office, AngelBoy meowed and cried--- this from a cat who was always quiet in the car, who was content to be in his crate as long as he could see out the window. I held him while the vet gave him the injection, and I buried my head in my husband's shoulder and I couldn't stop crying. I was, in effect, killing my cat, because he was killing me. It was horrible. I felt so badly for three days, then realized how much easier my days were without having to cat-sit AngelBoy every minute of every day. That sense of relief made me feel badly also. You can't win with cats. They are what they are, and you either have to accept them as such or you don't.

Two weeks after AngelBoy "left" us, a stray cat appeared on the back porch. A charcoal-gray male, about a year old, with iridescent light green eyes. Skinny, starving, pathetic. Clearly scared, wouldn't come near me, but when I left food on the porch and came back in, he ran to the dish and ate every bit of it. Not until the third feeding, a day-and-a-half later, did the cat trust me enough to get close to me. Then, before he ate his food, he rubbed up against my leg-- a feline thank-you for the Fancy Feast beef.

I promised my husband that he would be an outside cat, and I intend to keep that promise. He is, truly, an outside cat.... and he seems content outside anyway. My husband knew that cat wasn't going to leave because the first thing I fed him was a whole can of Fancy Feast. "That cat is going to hang around," said he. But my husband didn't care-- he said he would be a good "barn cat," and take care of the mice. (Do outside cats chase mice if their bellies are filled with Fancy Feast?)

On the fifth day, my husband came up with a good name for the cat--- "The Gray Gatsby." This cat, with his long legs and svelte body, looks very elegant, and his gray coat is tipped with silver-- he looks like a Russian Blue. And those green eyes--- not as mesmerizing as AngelBoy's blue eyes (thank goodness) but striking just the same. We call him Gatsby for short, and he has made himself at home here. He sleeps on the back porch, except during the heat of the day, and then he finds himself a cool spot underneath the back deck. He comes when I call him.... he already knows his name, and I have to be careful when I'm walking outside now because he will take every opportunity to weave himself inbetween my ankles and sit on top of my feet.

My life with cats was sealed, I believe, when I was just a baby. The first gift my Aunt Dolly ever gave me was an infant-sized white bath towel with a kitten done up in applique patch-work on the front of it. That towel was always with me, propping up the bottle in my crib, used as an impromptu pillow for a nap, and it's still with me now. It is hanging up on the towel rack downstairs in the bathroom where the litter boxes are. The kitten applique is faded a bit, and I don't use it as a hand towel because I don't want to keep washing it. The more I wash it, the more the patchwork will fade. That kitten towel is 57 years old; my Aunt Dolly is now 96.

Without even trying very hard, I can still see AngelBoy's face. I can still hear his lilting, lisping meow in my mind, and his blue collar with his blue bell is hanging up in the laundry room. My husband took his collar before we left the vet's office that day. That day. Sometimes when I'm in the laundry room taking clothes out of the dryer, I will jiggle AngelBoy's collar so I can hear the distinctive sound of his bell.

That blue-eyed cat was with us for thirteen years. And there are days when he is still here, but I don't have to check the carpets anymore.

So we have two (inside) cats now, plus Gatsby (outside). Does this make us a two-and-a-half cat family?