Coffee, Cats, Coons and Chaos

Let’s be clear, here.  I am a dog person.  I grew up with dogs.  Lived with, loved on and traveled with dogs.  Yet, I still remember when I went from dog lover to crazy cat lady.  After the passing of my last dog, a German shepherd named Dakota, I decided I would not have any more pets.  I traveled a lot and hated leaving them behind, even though I vehemently and repeatedly told them, “I love you,” “I will be back soon,” and “You won’t even know I’m gone.” It broke my heart every time I left. My intentions were to remain pet-free.  This heart of mine couldn’t take having to say the final goodbyes any longer.

Enter Dodger.  A long-term feline lurker who earned his nickname because he was constantly running from and dodging the dogs on the property. You could tell he wanted attention, craved the love given to the canines. Being an animal lover, I couldn’t take letting him lingering around wanting to be petted yet not trusting enough to let anyone near him. For a year, I would periodically sit outside, talk to him, offering food from my hand, looking for any opportunity to offer my friendship. Slowly, painstakingly slowly, I earned his trust until finally he got close enough for me to gently offer my hand and pet him. That was it.  That was THE moment.  The shift. The transition.

I always made fun of these types of people.  Those cat people. Those who give their felines ridiculously long names as if they were from a long lineage of royalty. I LAUGHED AT THEM. No way was that me.  Nope. Nada.

Fast forward a couple of years, and now, there are 22 cats on the property.  Now calm down, they aren’t all mine.  I’m crazy, but I’m not THAT crazy. And for the record, I did not go out and seek these cats. Somehow, they just appeared. I was like, “Here kitty, kitty,” and the kitties kittied from out of nowhere. And yes, most of them have ridiculously long names.  For instance, there is Chatty Mae McGillicutty McGhee. She is a resident badass if ever I saw one. Princess Golden Bear Penelope Windsor from Lichtenstein.  I’m pretty sure she is of English royalty. I have no explanations for such tomfoolery. Simply, it is what it is. If you are a believer in the Law of Attraction, you may even insist that I manifested these fur-covered freeloaders.  Well, ok, Margaret, how do I turn it off?  Can someone show me?

Yes, I am a dog person, but I would not take a farm in Texas for any of these cats.  They are well taken care of, well fed, and deeply loved.

I live surrounded by woods, so wildlife is a part of the deal. Deer wander through. Turkeys strut across the lawn. Coyotes and foxes call these woods home, and there may even be a bear out there.  And raccoons. Oh yeah, lots of raccoons.

At three a.m. a couple of years ago, I heard a loud noise from the front yard and discovered 15 of the little rascals had turned over the cat food, called their friends, and were having a full-out fiesta.  Admittedly, they were fun to watch.  And thankfully, most moved on to unknown parts.  Notice I said, “Most.”

Today, we have at least two adults who have babies. I call the smallest adult Frito and she has three babies, the Banditos.  Then there is a larger female who had three babies known as The Bangles. Occasionally, a couple of larger adults join the circle and frequent the front deck to participate in a lovely meal of cat food. They have informed their friends and probably all their distant cousins they have discovered an all-you-can-eat, open-style bed and breakfast.

It’s an eerie feeling walking into the living room between two and three a.m., expecting to see one of the outside cats hinting for me to fill their food dish and instead there are a couple of raccoons leering at you through the window. And if you open the door, they don’t run away. Nope, they walk right up to you and hold out their front feet as if to beg, “Come on cat lady, we need the good stuff.” That is when chaos commences. For the next few hours, it’s constant. 

The cats want to get fed.

The cats want in.

The cats want out.

The coons eat all the food and want more.

The cats complain about the coons eating all their food.

Our mama cat chases off the coons.

Mama coon chases off Mama cat, then mama cat wants in. 

And I promise you, there has been more than one occasion when I almost let the raccoons in and asked the cats to leave. This is where the coffee helps.

Then, we run the whole play again as if we are practicing for an NFL playoff game or something. It’s pure chaos.  For two to three hours, a constant game of monitoring the situation so no one gets hurt, refilling the food dishes so everyone gets to eat, cursing a little bit because it’s never-ending and no one is ever truly satisfied. And of course, drinking copious amounts of coffee, swearing to all that is holy that some things are going to change around here.

So, don’t judge me for my love of that glorious elixir or the amount of this life-saving beverage I consume. It’s what gets me through the early hours of coffee, cats, coons and chaos with a little bit of sanity. It’s also why I am now known as the Crazy, Caffeinated Cat Lady down the street. The world may never know how I went from dog lover to this.  I don’t even know. But the transformation is complete. I have lost the right to laugh at THOSE people. Now, I AM those people. Just ask Chatty Mae McGillicutty McGhee.