If cats could talk, they wouldn’t.
~Nan Porter

I’m the neighborhood cat lady. I’m also on the board of the local humane society, so neighbors trust my competence as a cat person. I always say yes when asked to cat-sit, even when I’m busy. One, I want to be neighborly, and two, I try to do a little humane education, mainly that cats are safer indoors. My own three rescues live indoors.

According to my vet, the number one killer of cats is not rabies or FIV but the automobile. And the songbird population is way better off when cats stay indoors, as are the neighborhood flowerbeds.

So, when Sue, a neighbor two doors down from me, asked me to cat-sit, I was torn. Yes, there was that urge to be neighborly, but I was very busy with an out-of-town conference. I got home at night just in time to make supper and feed my own cats. I like to spend some time with the kitties I’m sitting, but the three days Sue needed me for were the three days I’d be tied up at the conference.

“Oh, that’s alright,” Sue said breezily when I walked down the street to explain this to her. “They’ll amuse themselves. Just let them out into the garden in the morning when you leave and bring them in when you get home. The yard has a cat fence. No critters can get in or out, so it’s perfectly safe. Just be sure to count. The little rascals love to play games. Come on in and meet the crew.”

Well, of course, I melted. There was a gorgeous blue-eyed momma Seal Point Siamese named Cocoa and her five adorable, identical minimes. How could I say no?

So, the cat-sitting began. I later referred to the kittens as the Terrible Tribe of Siam. They were as cute as bugs’ ears, but talk about boisterous! In the late afternoon, when I got home from my conference and walked down the street to put them back in the house, they had other plans. They were like a horde of Tasmanian devils — into shrubs and out, up the little trees that Sue had planted in the yard, and hurling themselves off lawn statues. Good grief.

Every night, I snagged them one at a time, deposited each one in the house, and went out for the others. Then, I counted. Five kittens. One laid-back momma cat. All six present and accounted for. So, close the cat flap, feed the kitties, and come back in the morning to do it again.

Then came the last day. I was in a rush. Traffic had been horrible. I had some phone messages to attend to at home. I confess that I was seriously distracted. As if they sensed this, the Terrible Tribe was even more terrible.

Cocoa had also caught this misbehaving fever, tearing around the house like an unguided missile, racing in and out of the cat flap. I counted carefully, closed the cat flap, scooped litter pans, fed everyone, and hastily made my escape onto the front porch… where a beautiful, blue-eyed Seal Point Siamese cat awaited me. I shrieked. Cocoa! How had this happened?

I’d somehow let her out. Perhaps when I went out the front door to deposit the used litter in the trash can? Or had she darted out into the backyard when I wasn’t looking and escaped over the cat-proof fence? Panicked, I scooped her up, muttering a prayer of thanks, and tossed her back inside.

At home, I fed my cats and settled down on the couch to make phone calls. I was still stewing over almost losing Cocoa when a call came in from Sue. She was at home and could hardly talk for laughing.

“Thanks for giving me an extra cat,” she chortled.

“An extra cat?” I replied, confused.

“Yeah, that’s Miss Lily. She lives across the street. She often comes and hangs out on the porch. I’m pretty careful not to let her in, but I see she fooled you. This will make a good story. When I left for my trip, I had six Siamese. When I came back, I had seven. I knew I could count on you!”

Oh, yes, I’m a good counter, I thought, ending the call feeling like the world’s biggest doofus. Count on me indeed.

— Linda J. Wright —