Call Me Peaches: Savannah, GA – 1918 [Shorthair]

Required to move, I sluggishly rise from the bare hardwood floor, lifting my girthy frame skyward.  Which barely clears my fluffy orange stomach fur off the ground.  

The short, stubby legs I’m endowed with are exhibited by many of my breed.  However, as I get older, my belly seemingly gets larger, and my quartet of appendages get smaller.  I must now be carefully any time I straddle encumbrances below; this was never an issue in my youth.

I’m 14 years old, according to the 1904 birth year denoted on collar I’ve worn since childhood.  This object’s circumference has been enlarged several times at this point.  Considering the monotony of each subsequent day, I lost track of time a while back.  At this advanced age, all my movements are slow and imperfect, hindered by both a degrading mind and body.

I used to be mobile enough to stroll around the neighborhood, meeting other cats who were similarly acquired by their owners.  There seemed to be quite a whirlwind of adoptions over a specific multi-year stretch.  I’m happy to have been at the front end of this procurement trend.

I was adopted as an already aging feline by a lonely wife, while her husband was away during World War I.  A common occurrence, not just here in Savanah, GA, but across America, and around the globe.  Like most, this acquisition was my savior’s way of staying sane, and avoid going stir-crazy in these tumultuous times.  A sentiment easy for me to relate to, based on my animal shelter upbringing. 

Throughout the long conflict, both of us have spent countless silent hours staring out the front window, waiting for something to happen.  While our motives were decidedly different, neither of our desires ever came to premonition.  Yet, we soldiered on.

Right on queue, another verbal summons comes from the kitchen.  The first utterance of my name was sufficient to get me moving, albeit feebly.  I was already anticipating this call, as the sun sets through the drawn curtain windows, which remained permanently open until recently.  It’s dinner time.

My name is multifaceted.  Most obvious is the ode to primary hair coloration, a unique pinkish orange.  This hue is a near-perfect match to the popular state fruit, which is prevalent throughout the south, but specifically here in Georgia.  Also relevant is my proclivity to diligently respond to my accepted proprietor’s commands, albeit with an increasingly weary and wobbling gait.

Time for some food.  I’m not a picky eater, considering the challenged upbringing.  My adolescent years were personified by shelter scarcity.  More recently, everything has become rationed as a result of the Great War.  Never a natural hunter, due to my squatty stance, and sluggish sprint, I’ll eat anything offered up by my generous human providers. 

Which has meant a steady diet of canned goods, often textureless, tasteless gruel.  Many nights my matriarch and I sit together on the threadbare couch, huddled under a blanket for warmth, sharing a bowl of lukewarm slop.  The energy regulations influenced every element of life, ever here in the generally temperate southeast.

While the conflict is still ongoing, America’s participation seems to be waning.  As evidenced by a very important recent event in this household.  The return of a husband figure which I’ve heard so much about during verbal rantings over the past several years.  Apparently, he is real.

And apparently, this sturdy orange furball was often mentioned in the frequent letters I saw my mother write and mail on a weekly basis.

I’m glad my feline addition to the family has been welcomed by the reestablished male participant in the home. My de facto father even lets me use the Army kit he brought home from his tour.  The rucksack, heavily worn, represents a nice napping nook option.  Granted, it’s a little dirty and smelly, but sleepy beggars can’t be choosers.

Moving back to the worn couch after my evening meal in the kitchen, I utilize the same scratched wooden ramp, which has been in place since my entrance into this humble abode, to climb back atop the cushions.  On each angled step, I can feel the effects of age: tender paws, weak joints, flabby belly, stiff back.

Once this raised platform is attained, breathing heavily, I snuggle in between my old matriarch, and my new patriarch.  They are also snuggling, having missed each other’s company over the past 4 years.  Our trio sits in stoic interlocked contentment, listening to the radio commentary describing battle developments occurring over 4k miles away across the Atlantic Ocean. 

Full, warm, and content, I doze off within minutes.  I quickly start dreaming about cat heaven, a setting which isn’t far off from my current, pleasant situation.

Mainstreet Mandy: New York City, NY – 1928 [Maine Coon]

Considering his entrepreneurial pursuits, and my nocturnal tendency, we run a decidedly night owl operation.  With no noisy grandfather clocks ticking in this fancy and well-furnished abode, there’s no way to tell if it’s currently the very end of the prior day, or the beginning of a new one.

We eat when we please, feasting on only the finest delicacies.  The servant staff is perpetually at our beck and call, ready to have a warm meal prepared in a moment’s notice.  Convenient accommodations, considering the erratic hours kept in this household.

Tonight, we dine in conversational silence, savoring the scrumptious flavors presented.  The only sound in the room is low jazz music, emanating from the record player in the corner.  Modern music knowledge is a key element of our lives, and livelihood.   

The 20’s are roaring, in every sense of the lingo.  At least according to the success of my master’s business.  A rich club owner, operating one of the most popular haunts in the city, provides plenty of revenue.  This disposable income is quickly spent on all manner of elegant splurges for both of us: bedazzled belts and collars, fancy shoes and booties, plush furniture and bedding.

I’m a huge, hefty animal, with huge, point ears.  Despite my substantial size, I’m the exact opposite of my historical hunter ancestors.  Strong genetics passed along on the physical front, but naturally wild tendencies were breed out long ago.  My predecessors had to survive harsh winters outdoors.  Now, I spend most of my time sitting in front of a warm fireplace.  

My partner describes me to his friends, with an alliterative flair that accompanies most of his speech, delivered in classic rapid cadence of the big city.  “Mainstreet Mandy, my Massive Maine Coon in Manhattan.”  These generous accolades never get old, causing me to blush, which is fortunately hidden under my fluffy coat.

As a pampered female figure, I’ve adopted my own persona, at least internally.  With few good examples to draw from American, I often fancy myself as a princess or queen in the British royal family.  The afforded amenities of this rich existence must be similar.

Both stuffed, we retire to the coxy, dimly light, study.  Here, numerous seating options are presented.  I’ve tried them all over the years, for all manner of cat naps, in the most literal sense of the word.  It would be easy to identify my favorite sleeping spots, marked by deposits of hair shed indiscriminately, if the cleaning staff wasn’t so diligent.

My incredibly long and fine fur necessitates constant brushing.  These white and silver strands cover my entire body, including my substantial face and head.  This region requires extra care, to create a symmetrical presentation, while keeping my eyes, nose, and mouth flashy yet functional.  Again, the silent and skillful servants come in handy.

Currently, at just 8 years old, I’m already reaching the latter years of life.  Big cats, like big dogs, and big humans, often have truncated lifespan.  My master and I are aging together, despite our best efforts to the contrary.  I doubt either of us have more than a few years left on this go-round.  Unfortunately, time cannot be bought.  But splurges can.

The aromatic wisps of cigar smoke, and dulcet tunes of opera classics, put the finishing touches on our active digestive process.  Within minutes, our odd couple is passed out, him in the lounge chair, and me on the adjacent ottoman, both covered in the same plush black velvet fabric.

Remy The Recluse: Chicago, IL – 1936 [Hybrid Mutt]

What’s that smell?  Nasal proficiency is not one of my specialties, relative to the other resourceful creatures I’m competing against out here.  Which means I must make the most of my other endowed features.  Which represent an eclectic mix.

I have no idea what my hereditary combination is.  As a feral cat surviving in a metropolitan setting, lineage acumen is of no benefit.

However, considering my size, closer to a racoon than a squirrel, there must be big cat genetics somewhere in me.  A lynx, maybe even bobcat DNA, several generations back.  This unique hybrid mutt profile has certainly helped me to survive.  Good thing, since I’m perpetually sparring with all manner of rogue rodents.

Whatever traits my ancestors passed on to me, a fancy coat apparently wasn’t in the cards.  My ugly brown fur, the color of moist dirt, or other even less appealing soiled items, is perpetually matted, aside from scraggly bits which remain perpetually askew. 

Granted, my hygiene regimen isn’t the best.  I stopped normal tongue-lick grooming years ago, and spend my waking hours wandering through filth.  And my sleeping hours lying in the same muck.  

Even in the prime of my life, every day is a struggle.  In fact, being at peak performance is the only reason I’m still alive.  Just 6 years old, I’ll be surprised if I make more than a few additional turns of the calendar.  Urban Chicago is tough living for a stray cat.

My entire existence has been associated with constantly scrounging.  In my travels, I’ve met up with older feline characters who reminisce about the good old days of yore.  Apparently, I was born into a national depression of epic proportions.  Based on all my challenging life experiences, it’s hard to argue against this realization.

I was birthed in a back alley as part of a large litter.  The year was 1930, according to the date on the newspaper scraps which composed our bedding for the first few months.  All parents and siblings have now passed.  As the largest of the lot, it’s fitting I’m the last one alive. 

My mother and father both lived in actual houses with owners during their early years, before being kicked to the curb for financial reasons.  Beneficial accommodations which I can only dream of.  I don’t know much more about them.  The product of a one-night stand, both my parents deserted me, and the rest of their young, shortly after birth.

As kittens, our toys were random items scrounged directly from the garbage.  We fought ruthlessly for common objects which were cast-off by everyone else: shoe laces, hat feathers, suit buttons.  Discarded by humans, just as they discarded my parents, and countless others, to the streets.  Ironically, as this Great Depression slogs on, and resources become increasingly scarce, people are even joining our abandoned animal ranks.

It’s cold out here.  Too bad I was born and deposited into windy, chilly, lakeside environ.  The sunny beaches of Florida would be much more palatable.  The winters here are brutal.  Plus, I’m starving, as evidenced by my growling stomach.  Time to find the source of that smell, and the hopefully the source of my next meal.

Turning the corner into a dark alley, I approach the pile of refuse with cautious apprehension.  For every meal, I’m battling all manner of other critters for food, many of whom are larger, and this require more sustenance to survive.  Rats. Pigs. Dogs.  Even homeless humans.  Fortunately, I’m more tenacious. 

Every single creature knows when tasty trash snacks are put out at various grocery stores and restaurant establishments.  The only question is who can get there first, and claim their stake.

Fortuitously, in recent months, as the first snows have set in, cementing the dire nature of our communal situation, teamwork has materialized.  Symbiotic scavengers who all communicate with each other, and sometimes even share resources.

All omnivores, by necessity as opposed to choice, each of us still have our own food preferences.  As a cat, instinctually, I like any kind of fish.  More functionally, my sharp claws, and pointy teeth, are able to extract bits of meat off the fine bones without breaking them, or causing intestinal issues.  It took a few ugly internal bleeding issues for my mutt mate to realize this dietary challenge.

An hour later, the hefty bag of garbage has been reduced to a few inedible bits of metal and glass.  The rat pack even finished off the cardboard box the refuse was housed in.  I’m ready for a nap, a cat specialty.

With another bout of flurries falling, and no more opportunities for warming nourishment until the morning bakery disposal, it’s time to hunker down.  This ragtag crew has dubbed our collective sleeping arrangement the “Animal Alley Apartments”.

Our squad of street creatures huddles together in a mangy, mangled pile, leveraging collective warmth.  Going to sleep each night is easy, waking up each day is hard.  Charles Darwin would be proud, and confused, at the same time.

Shabby Abbey: Ft. Worth, TX – 1943 [Tabby]

Moving slowly and stealthily through the scrub brush, I have many factors to consider. The direction of the prevailing wind.  The delicate placement of my padded paws.  The long shadows cast by the setting sun.  The movements of the mark I’m secretly stalking.

At 5 years of age, I’m entering the prime of life.  And on the large side for a cat, domesticated or feral.  A blurred line which I span in many regards.  My current activity leans decidedly to the wild side; I catch all my own food, leveraging the plentiful outdoor bounty.

My traditional grey and black stripped coloring for a tabby, with some random white patches, works perfectly in this parched landscape of expansive sand, dead wood, and intermittent rocks.  Still, nature has provided each living organism with its own means of protection and survival.

No surprisingly, ranking my targets in order of increasing speed, insects, rodents, then birds, represents the inverse order of meal preference.  Any time I’m able to capture and consume an avian adversary, I savor the snack with content pleasure.  A winged creature is the target of my current hunting endeavor.

This ambitious means of sustenance has developed out of necessity.  As the entire country is currently participating in a global war, rations for all resources, including food, are severely limited.  As it turns out, humans get to eat before animals, even pets.  Which is a generous description for the current relationship I have with the people with whom I share this land.

What started as a chore, to stay alive, has now become my passion, and means of entertainment.  It’s also helped that I grew up from the runt of the litter to a feline monstrosity.  The larger I get, the more nourishment I need.  Fortunately, I continue to refine my hunting techniques.   

My masters, a generous term, are a pretty dull bunch.  A perpetually depressed mom, with her always sick kid.  Not exactly a jolly duo to hang out with.  This partial family is always listening to war updates on the radio.  I don’t understand any of the speaker utterances, but this seems like a sad existence.   

I’ve never experienced the mental anguish which seems to perpetually exude from this somber pair.  But, pain is a known feeling; physically injury is a common result of my various outdoor romps.

Considering the gloomy demeanor inside, I spend pretty much all my time outside, even sleeping under the stars, when it’s cold enough that snakes won’t be slinking around.  Reptiles still aren’t on my buffet menu; there are some tough and dangerous offerings here in the Southwest.

There’s no shortage of fun activities to keep me entertained in the yard.  Marking my territory through smell assessment, then shedding fur and spreading seed.  Basking in the bold sun, which is strong in this state.  Indulging in free range poops, completely clear of litter box constraints, an odd setup which is apparently becoming a thing for lazy housecats.  Chasing critters, sometimes successful, with nibbling tender grass shoots as a backup plan.

On that note, a shadow flashes overhead, mirroring the movement of a bird aloft.  My new mark.  As soon as this fowl lands, I’ll make my move.  For now, I stay static and crouched.  Patience is the key to an effective hunting strategy.  

Alexandretta: Levittown, PA – 1955 [Sphynx]

I stand perfectly still, staring out the window into the yard.  It’s a picturesque scene, a neatly manicured lawn of green grass, ringed by a white picket fence.  Across the street, a nearly identical unit faces this house. 

Aside from having a different paint color on the siding, and no mirrored cat matching my gaze, this residence is essentially the same as my home.  Along with the hundreds of others in this newly built municipality of Levittown, PA.  This curated community is the second massive planned development executed by a real estate mogul for whom this suburb is named.  

Like their architecture, there’s a decided similarity between the inhabitants of all these newly constructed units.  Young, expanding families, formed by male soldiers who recently returned from World War II, and the ladies who were happy to welcome these brave gentlemen back with open arms.  Those lucky enough to return alive, that is.

The inevitable result of these rekindled relationships is a baby boom.  As a cat, I’m not directly contributing to this population explosion, but the newborn in the crib next to me definitely is.  I’m not sure why this particular couple chose to take on the burden of two infantile mammals at the same time, but I’m not complaining. 

I’m an incredibly naïve, but incredibly cute, young animal.  The former adverse trait is redeemed by the latter beneficial quality.  No doubt my aesthetics were the main reasons I was selected to join this growing family.

A slender and bony frame, completely devoid of hair, with very large ears, which are completely disproportioned to the rest of my slight body.  These oversized ears, which are perpetually askew, apparently don’t endow me with improved hearing, since I often fail to acknowledge any auditory activity around me.  In true stone statue fashion.

My assigned moniker is apparently a clever amalgamation of my owners, Alex and Rita.  As a kitten, I’m still learning to instinctively respond to this callout, or any commands for that manner.  Obedience is definitely a work in progress.  At least I spend many of my waking hours essentially inert, which makes it hard to get into too much trouble.     

This stoic and pensive posture is reminiscent of the famous Sphinx statue in the Gaza region of Egypt.  While the reference is clear, apparently my breed, with slightly different spelling, actually has much closer origins, my first ancestors hailing from the country of Canada just to the north.

Content with my surveillance of the landscape, which lasted over an hour, I conclude it’s time for some movement.  All is quiet on the outside front.

Jumping down from my perch on the sill, I hit the ground and am immediately in motion.  I race around the thick carpet, darting to and fro along an erratic path.  The friction of my bare paws on the ground sends electrical tingles through my body.  At least I don’t have a bunch of fluffy body hair which would spike from this static charge.

As a youngling, still developing, I have very poor balance and coordination.  That’s what happens when appendage length and musculature is changing rapidly.  As a result, on these romps, I stick to the living room, with cushioned furniture, and plush floor covering, providing soft padding for my frequent gaffs.

No toys are needed for my entertainment, leaving more funds to splurge on the human baby.   After a short burst of energy, 3 laps around the recliner, 2 jumps onto the couch, and 1 skidding crash into the coffee table, I’m spent. 

Complete fatigue setting in, I collapse against the leg of the crib.  This tiny child swaddled above and I will be growing up together.  Granted, I seem to be perpetually quarantined from my de facto sister.  Hopefully we get to engage more as we both get older. 

There are many similarities between us.  Warm milk is the staple of our diets.  Neither creature has any bowel control.  Both bodies are essentially hairless with wrinkled skin.  We spend a majority of our time sleeping. 

Most notably, we’re still getting caught up on our infantile shots; based on frequent verbal outbursts, neither of us are a fan of doctors, veterinary or otherwise.  Hopefully, these dietary and medical strategies will allow us to enjoy long and productive lives. 

In the future, maybe I’ll even be able to go outside, and make some feline friends in this new neighborhood.  While us cats are created in all manner of size and shape visually, we’re all linked spiritually.  I could use a soul mate, especially considering how often I sit in stoic meditation.

Pampered Princess: Baltimore, MD – 1980 [Bombay]

The rocking chair creeks loudly, the combination of stressed wood, overburdened load, and aged construction, conspiring in a raucous amalgam.  Most rational folks would switch to a different furniture piece, but this is the only available option in the small studio apartment.

Plus, us pair of friends sharing this seat are quite content.  And very lazy.  Especially considering the current adverse environmental conditions.

In the heart of summer, in the suburbs of Philly, its warmer inside than outside, yet the only window remains shut.  The street noise is too relentless, and air conditioners can’t be afforded, here in the ghetto.  Poor doesn’t begin to describe the renter of this residence. 

This meager financial status doesn’t stop my mom from pampering her prize possession.  Me. 

Aside from the monochromic black and white shades which dominate the plain space, there’s one prevalent hue.  Bright pink.  This is the color which both of us love to drape ourselves in.  Clothing.  Jewelry.  Footwear.  Accoutrements.  All outfits and accessories donned daily by both us ladies personify this vivid shade. 

Granted, not everything is produced in pink.  And any gal likes a little bling.  In fact, my bestie and I have matching necklaces, both the same “Princess” moniker on them.  The letters are written using smokey white orbs, reminiscent of pearls, but which are instead just plastic beads.  No real jewels can be afforded on this household’s menial budget.

Despite being classified as homo sapiens and felis catus from a scientific standpoint, the pair of us have many shared features.  Very dark black skin and hair, a result of our far afield genealogy, hers African and mine Burmese.  Both typically slender physiques have transitioned to severely overweight, due to quite sedentary lifestyles.

We spend essentially every moment together.  Aside from a single hour, twice a week, when my pal leaves our small sanctuary.  I have no idea where she goes on these adventures, as I have never left this space, and can’t see anything outside the windows except the nearby brick wall of the adjacent slum.  Thus, my knowledge of outside world is severely limited.

These trips must be fruitful, as my supporter always returns with a full bag of canned goods.  Which provides the sustenance we’re currently eating, as we do with religious consistency 3 times a day.  Every time I eat this mealy, meaty slop I savory the salty, synthetic flavors.  There are some benefits to a regular routine.

Another daily regimen is the watching a curated line-up of TV shows: local news, true crime, sappy movies.  Now, in the early afternoon, we’re halfway through our run of gameshows.  Shifting slightly, I roll further onto my side, and the lumpy mass underneath matches my movements.  The blended blob is alive.

Sluggishly, I open my half-closed lids, revealing bright-yellow eyes.  Time to pay attention.  This is the chance for the crew on screen to solve the puzzle, and take home the big prize.  Maybe someday my matriarch will find her way onto one of these programs, and hit it big.  God knows, we could use the funds, but getting to the studio for filming could present a problem.

Life is an emotional rollercoaster, just like the soap operas we perpetually binge.  Over the years, us pair of ladies has become an expressive sounding board for each other.  Both prone to random babbling, we’re impressively able to communicate with through an invented hybrid language, which blends speech, signs, and sensation.

There’s no perfect conversion between human and cat age.  However, it feels like the two of us have aged essentially in unison.  From a mathematical standpoint, the multiplier is 6, with my mother just turning 66, while I’m in my 11th year of existence.  I have no doubt, if one of us dies, the other won’t be far behind.  That’s how it works with kindred spirits.

Belle: New Orleans, LA – 1991 [Chartreux]

My stomach hurts.  More accurately, the region below my belly.  Something is definitely brewing downstairs.   

This isn’t my first rodeo.  Or second.  In fact, I’ve lost track of how many litters I’ve produced in my life.  Is it 8?  Or maybe 9?  Am I in double digits?  13 is a luck number, but that doesn’t seem possible, considering my middling age of just 6 solar cycles.  Since I can’t even keep track of how many times I’ve given birth, there’s no hope of remembering all my offspring.  Plus, most of them have long since departed on their own life path.  

Queening came early for me, my first pregnancy and subsequent yield all occurring in my first year of life.  With a 2-month gestation process, my breeding tally could actually be much higher.  Fortunately, my owners, and facilitators, are patient and strategic folks.  I like to think the irregular breaks in facilitated sex are based on inability to find an acceptable mate, but that may just be a streak of vanity showing through.     

My genes are quite strong, associated with fancy status.  Chartreux, a cat class invented in the 1970’s.  The French linkage, and lineage, is apparently popular with residents in the Big Easy.  Francoise elements are ever-present here, from food, to music, to clothing.  These preferences have apparently pervaded to pets.

Speaking of attire, I look down at my own coat.  A dark blue and grey, unique colors presented in a very soft package.  Which is why I’m stationed here at a high-end cat rearing establishment.  A unique breed with good genes is apparently a desirable combination.

I have no idea how cats ever procreate in the wild.  At this facility, there are all manner of medical resources which aid in successful birthing: drugs, blankets, tools, vets. Genealogically pure felines like me require special vitamins to stay healthy.  Even more impressive, the proprietors of this operation have their own laboratory, and are very knowledgeable with regards to science.

I produce a new litter roughly every 8 months with a different father.  I’m always striving to achieve the perfect hereditary characteristic of my regal Chartreux lineage.  Currently, though hopefully only halfway through my full lifespan, my heat cycles, and thus birthing ability, only has a couple productive years remaining.  Each gestation is a learning experience.  Hopefully, if I can stay healthy, there will subsequent litters to come.

No matter how many times I go through pregnancy, it’s still a damn frustrating procedure.  Which physically crushes my body.  My nibbles are still tender from last round of youngling nursing, that has just completed.  My neck is swollen from fattening up to support the embryos in my belly, resulting in my collar being very tight.

No wonder I’m bloated and sluggish.  I’ve been eating constantly, but am still constantly hungry.  Clearly, there’s a huge yield coming.  In fact, based on past experience, I’m convinced the moment of truth is near.  Some good drugs will help facilitate, and placate, the process.  The soft bedding and blankets are also much appreciated.  This is a long-running breeding facility with very safe and healthy practices.

I can’t wait to snuggle with the new additions to my constantly growing family.  Right after I get a warm bath, to decompress the body and mind.  Another of the many perks at this classy operation, affording lavish luxuries not even dreamt of by common cats executing natural births in the wild.

I know, once born, my kids will be taken care of.  Along with the medical resources, this operation has an amazing nursery and outdoor play area.  A few of my older offspring from previous broods, now actively helping refine this branch of the Chartreux line, are ready to help out, by providing safe entertainment to the world’s newest inhabitants.

The one essential element no others can provide is a mother’s milk, a critical commodity which I have a monopoly on.  These newborns will quickly tire of activity, seeking out their matriarch soon enough, for both food and warmth.  This group in my loins feels like a large one, maybe 4 kittens, the most I’ve produced in a single session.   

There’s no shortage of children around, as I’m already a grandma countless times over.  I know from past experiences that many in the pending brood will be quickly sent off to new homes, and never seen again.  Good riddance to some, while others are sorely missed. 

Giving birth in quite painful, but incredibly rewarding.  Every single stint.  Plus, I know I’m setting in motion, or continuing on, a lengthy and unique life arc for each tiny entity I generate.

Siamese Sams: San Francisco, CA – 1998 [Siamese]

Why does she always have so much energy?  Who could possibly keep up with her?  When will this silly competition end?

The wood laminate floor is polished to the point where it’s as slippery as a sheet of ice. My tender kitten paw pads are no match for this slick surface.  Plus, my sister, despite our similar physiques, is somehow much more mobile than me across these challenging conditions.

Us pair of kittens look identical, both dark and light, more brown and tan than black and white.  Fortunately, wardrobe additions have been provided, in the form of different colored collars; predicably blue for the boy and pink for the girl.  Many elements our host family are formal and regimented.

Despite our differentiation markings, all the humans in the house, both parents and children, continually get our names confused.  Maybe they shouldn’t have picked a pair of essentially identical monikers.  Especially in shorted and screamed form, as the crazy kids often deliver our way.

Samantha and I are twin 2-year-old Siamese cats. I get the sarcasm of the names.  But, we’re completely different animals on the inside, despite our identical appearance.  Then, there’s some racial irony regarding the selection of cat breed in this Asian household.

Playing with my sister, when I can muster up the energy, is one of my few entertainment options.  The décor in this house is traditional Feng Shui, not offering up many furniture or toys to engage with.  Plus, our masters aren’t home much, and don’t seem to interested in us felines when they are around.

This is a dedicated Japanese family, with both parents working in tech industry during the ongoing boom here in San Fransisco, and both kids slaving away on schoolwork well beyond normal daytime hours.  Thus, us twin cats are often alone, left to our own devices.

Our motivation levels are an interesting juxtaposition for a pair of playful kittens. Apparently, a lazy boy, and a motivated girl, mirrors broader societal trends in the human civilization which we’ve been immersed into.  Despite her unwavering energy, and my perpetually laziness, my sister is my best friend. 

Both brought into this world together, average in size, my mother had a normal pregnancy, until we emerged from the womb identical aside from our sex.  

While tiny Siamese kittens often looked similar, feeble black and white bundles of fur, Samantha and I were obviously twins right from the start.  As evidenced by a pair of unique marks: a chocolate protrusion, which extends like a miniature horn between our eyes, and an elongated beige section, that continues well beyond the traditional dark tail merge point.

Unique animals, which were fortunately kept together.  I’m happy the two of us weren’t separated after birth.  Good things come in pairs.

Lounging on the striped brown flooring after another spirited chase session, I let my heart rate slowly return to natural levels.  My sister continues making laps around the kitchen island like a girl possessed.  Which isn’t that far from the truth.  

Meanwhile, my focus has already transitioned to snacks, as opposed to speed.  Now contently inert, I’m able to finally assess more elements of the surroundings.  Currently, savory smells are dominating the landscape.

The family nanny is responsible for many things in this smoothly running household: cleaning, food, and caretaking.  Which is why the floors are so slippery, meal preparation very aromatic, and our fluffy fur always brushed.

Posting up here in the kitchen allows all these labor benefits to be enjoyed simultaneously.  Most relevant in my mind, this room is the epicenter, and origin, of sustenance.  It hasn’t taken long living here to grasp the preferred cuisine.

Not surprisingly, the dominant flavors personify classic Asia ingredients.  Specifically, fishy smells which really get my taste buds excited.  Maybe I should creep over to the stove, and see what’s simmering away.  With my sister distracted in her solo race, this may be an opportunity to get rewarded for beneficial behavior.  This ploy is worth a shot.

Fortunately, us Siamese cats are robust, having the longest life expectancy of any common feline breed.  While I’m done chasing my sibling around, I’m happy to use my remaining energy to explore what’s cooking.  Any boost of Omega-3 fatty oils can only help my health metrics in the long run.

Cali Love: Phoenix, AZ – 2024 [Calico]

The wind rushes past, whistling in my ears, and rustling my fur.  Sitting in the front wire mesh basket attached to the handlebars of the bicycle, I take the brunt of the air flow. And couldn’t be happier about it.

On this brilliantly sunny summer afternoon, we’re headed to lunch at a local restaurant. This place is a staple of our weekend routine, as the facility is pet friendly, has outdoor seating, and boasts some of the best vegetarian food in town.  Both of us friends are very particular about food intake.

My life has been composed of two distinct phases, roughly equal in duration, but drastically different in experience. 4 bad years in a dingy shelter, followed by 4 good years with the individual who adopted me.  I’m undyingly grateful to this young lady.

In fact, based on pieces of cellphone conversations I’ve caught, my young owner was also going through some turbulent times before we found each other.  The COVID-19 pandemic was a period of profound change for many worldwide.

The film industry, which relies on physical human interaction, was very challenged during the forced shutdown. Plus, the liberal state of California enforced all manner of draconian policies on their citizens.  Fortuitously, this young lass finally gave up on an acting career, and moved from Los Angeles to Phoenix.

Within a few weeks of arriving in a new town, this lonely millennial walked into an animal shelter, looking for a companion. Her selection was a scrawny calico offering, equal color distribution of black, orange, and white hues. More importantly, the chosen critter, me, was caught somewhere between child and adult, just like herself.

The entertainment realm’s loss was my gain.  Cali Love.  A cheeky, multi-faceted, name, which I’m happy to adopt. It’s got a much better ring than the various cat calls I was subjected to during my prison-like upbringing.  Random roommates are the worst.

I find it fitting that I was adopted by a girl, as essentially all calico cats are female.  I’m not exactly sure how this works from procreation standpoint, and have no knowledge of my parents, or what they looked like, hence the rescue center upbringing.  Regardless, I’ve been endowed with the usual blotchy presentation, resembling Jackson Pollock working in macabre Halloween hues.

As we roll along the city streets, various obstacles are encountered.  The latest encumbrance is a typical one, a leashed-up dog tugging furiously at his master’s arm. Classic lack of restraint, as most of the canine class exhibit.  It’s often hard to differentiate who’s in control of who with these pet versus person interactions.

From my lengthy time in the shelter, I’ve developed a significant disdain for dogs, especially the small, barky ones. Granted, it’s easy to spout judgement from my rapidly moving raised perch.  Our ride’s skillful operator is fortunately able to make the required evasive maneuvers.  I emit an appropriately piercing meow as we pass.

My soul mate has found a new job in new industry, which allows her to work from home out of our tiny basement apartment.  As a result, we spend essentially all our time together, be it awake and asleep.  We’re both small females, so don’t need much space or possessions.  Just each other’s company.

As we make the final turn towards the restaurant, the bike pitches to the right, momentum forcing my boney frame against the wired cage.  The more rides we take, the better I’ve gotten at bracing and adjusting to the various bumps and wobbles of this wheeled adventure.

It’s incredibly exhilarating being in the bike basket, allowing me to travel at speeds much faster than I could ever achieve with my own scrawny 4 legs.  With this mode of transport, leg power is provided by my human counterpart, while I sit up front keeping an eye out for danger ahead.

Parking against the fence which rings the patio, I’m scooped up gently, then deposited on our usual table just inside this barrier.  Here, I stand proudly on all-fours, guarding our post while my lunch partner enters through the traditional gate.

I have no idea how many more years I have left on this earth, or what events will materialize, but am content to enjoy meals out together like this, with a perfect counterpart, for the rest of my days.  Rumor has it cats are granted 9 lives.  Which leaves me with another century after I leave the world on this initial rotation.