There’s another factor that keeps RJ our baby. We adopted him as a terribly deprived kitten. He was being held as evidence in a police case, having bounced around various shelters for most of his four months, for what we can only assume was extreme neglect, since the only way I could tell he was a long-haired cat was the tufts in his ears.

So RJ, while his marvelous social qualities are topnotch and untouched, has cognitive difficulties which make him act younger than his age.

I put my face near the cage, (keeping my hands behind my back to keep him calm,) and asked him, “So what’s your story?” He reached out through his cage bars and patted me on the face. And there you are.

I got to work, calling the police department and getting the officer in charge of the case to spring him. Twenty four hours later he was on his way home, an hour away on rural roads. He quieted down almost instantly, until the deworming medicine hit halfway there and now he had a serious complaint. I heard him search in vain for the litter box in the backseat, where I had secured his carrier. Even as I rolled down the windows, I thought that at least he cared about his litter.

The detritus was at one end, the kitten was at the other, I saw in the rearview mirror. So that was okay, the carrier had a washable bottom. We were ten minutes from home and I was still glad I didn’t get any on the mesh inside.

That’s when a deer jumped out in front of me, and while no one was in danger by the end of it, the poor kitten had been rolled around in his carrier.

Naturally, as I carried him up the stairs, all three neighbors on the second floor wanted to meet him, moving forward before I could warn them, their big smiles turning into looks of horror.

Then the kitten and the carrier had to go in the tub and be washed. By the time all this was done, and the kitten was rolled into a towel, RJ could be forgiven for thinking he had been chosen for one of those early New Age rebirthing experiments.

Mr WereBear, whose illness makes for an erratic sleep schedule, had woken up, so I carried the kitten in. He marched his damp self right across the bed and put his face on Mr WereBear’s face.

He’s had our hearts ever since. We taught him to play with toys, and he devoted himself to catching up on all the development he had missed.

For months, he would select a Toy of the Day, and play with it in every possible way.

His face took a long while to show expression unless there were extreme circumstances, such as the way his little face lit up when he saw the food bowl we had set out for him.

Here, RJ cuddles with his kitten, Olwyn. One thing I was, and remain, amazed by is that he may not have gotten enough food, attention, or toys in his early life, yet he never had difficulty with socialization. He is so eager to make friends he will moderate his behavior to get along with all the cats.

Mr. Bond has come to admit that there is fun in having a minion. RJ is a Beta, like Mr. Bond, so he is eager to help with the supervisory duties that these kinds of cats excel at.

So I picked him, this bony, ratlike, unkitten kitten, over all the tiny fluffy ones at the shelter. I didn’t do it because he was the least likely kitten to be adopted, though he was. I did it because it was obvious he had a great big muffiny heart.

All else is commentary.

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Clockwise from left: James Bond, the 12-year-old Supervisor and Norwegian Forest-Oriental mix. At far right: Olwyn, our Punkin, eight months, Wegie mix. Example of a dilute tortoiseshell. Bottom of picture: RJ, two-and a half, a Mainly-Maine Coon, who still has some growth spurts ahead of him.

This picture shows off Punkin’s fox-like tail and playful nature, Mr Bond’s intelligence, and RJ’s big heart on display, loving his kitten. I treasure this one.

It’s a good time to think about what we have given to others that have made them happy. And I am happy I’ve saved three kitties from an uncertain life.

Expensive breed or random feral, any of our cats would be facing homelessness without us in their lives.

We are so thankful that we have them, too. Each of them has winning ways to interact with us, often. Each one keeps getting better and better at it. Each one is beautiful.

I didn’t choose any of them for beauty. Mr Bond was the last kitten left in the litter. Olwyn was dropped off in a cardboard box and was nursed back from death by a devoted shelter. Reverend Jim was simply the most pathetic specimen I had yet encountered. Read their stories where I tell how I got them.

Here’s my favorite picture of RJ, when we’d had him one month:

His fur is starting to grow in again and he was getting these cute tufts all over him.

RJ is very happy with us. And he’s become beautiful; outwardly and within.

So I’m thankful that every day Reverend Jim teaches us about love, and we teach him.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone.

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I got her at three months old from a local shelter, who had already done marvelous work saving her life when she arrived there, taken from her mother too soon and not being supported with proper food during her abrupt weaning.

When I first saw her, I had to decide if she was able to leave the shelter yet. But the shelter manager, hearing that I was up to the challenge, agreed that she had reached the stage where one-on-one care would make the most difference.

We must be doing something right, because she has absolutely bloomed in our home. Curious, active, yet also cuddly and interested in every face in her world, she is a wonderful personality in, as yet, a very small package.

Her lack of confidence shows only in how she is reluctant to tackle our other cat’s heads in classic kitten style. Mr. Bond is relieved, while RJ is disappointed.

We are working with our two kittens, two year old RJ, and three month old Olwyn, to make them comfortable with each other. And then, I’m sure, the Play will begin.

She already shows charm far beyond her tender years. She sends out signals for food and play directly and with confidence that her humans will respond. The shelter folks somehow got her socialized through a rocky beginning, because her favorite spot to sleep is in a human’s lap. This also means she is very much a baby, and needs the warmth of contact. As she grows, she should become more assertive, and more able to handle the independence that is a cat’s birthright.

While I chose her for her personality, she is also showing signs of growing into a lovely “dilute tortoiseshell,” the particular color pattern that is usually only seen in females, because of sex-linked color characteristics.

Not only are tortoiseshells usually female, they usually have “tortitude.” Bright and winning ways are considered tortoiseshell attributes, and she certainly has that in abundance. A strong will is another tortie trait, and one that requires mutual respect.

Raising her with love and understanding will bring out all her beautiful qualities, and temper her desire to have her own way… with recognition that others want to have their own way, too.

I think she is a princess already. Like all princesses, she should learn that with great power… comes great responsibility.

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This wasn’t a downside; I had fallen in love. I named him Smokepuff, since he was as silent and delicate as a puff of smoke, and he quickly became Puffy.

Puffy is the ultimate Gamma cat. Uninterested in other cats, devoted to his people, and dependent on steady routines and his undisturbed places. When I vacuum his pillow and put it back in the same place, he is still suspicious of it for a few hours until he is satisfied it has not changed that much. When we put new furniture in the living room and threw out the broken down couch, he wouldn’t come in. “How long will this last?” Mr WereBear wanted to know. “In two weeks, he’ll forget it was ever any other way,” I said, and so it was.

We adore Puffy, but it cannot be denied he is not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. It’s not that he doesn’t have thought processes, they just move so slowly that observers can be forgiven for thinking they are not taking place at all.

He has a tendency to panic when Mr WereBear and I wear hats. This apparently changes our profile in his head enough for him to doubt that he recognizes us. Since strangers make him panic, the reflex operates even after he gets a good look at us, sans hat. While his face lights up happily, his legs still try to run away, though usually in different directions.

We think he has tenuous connections throughout his nervous system. He is capable of grace once all his limbs settle on a plan, yet tends to fall off even the most large, flat, and stationary objects. His tongue, especially, seems to operate independently. He will lick his chops after a treat past all possibility that any residual flavor remains.

One night I was relating to Mr WereBear my friend B’s theory that Puffy is actually a misunderstood genius, prompted by Puffy coming out for his evening treats. This evening his tongue, post-treat, went a little wild, in the fashion of a broken windowshade. It continued its motions so long that even he noticed, and thus he kept putting his limbs in front of it, apparently thinking that he had been interrupted mid-cleaning. He seemed incapable of reining it in.

When I realized what was going on, I had to perform a “Puffy Reset” which is accomplished by gently and firmly pressing down on the top of his head. This reboots the system and restores him to tranquility.

As Puffy sat there blinking from his reset, Mr WereBear said, “Tell B I think she is mistaken.”

We had put a toy in an empty tissue box with the little plastic window, a favorite way of getting more use out of it. Puffy had enjoyed it for a few days, with us putting the toy back in once he got it out. This evening he was staring at the dark picture on the back of the box, and poking his paw at it. Just a little confused about which dark area contained the toy. After we stopped laughing, we turned the box around for him. He brightened. Oh, there it is.

I often don’t tell Puffy stories except to my close friends, since people might misunderstand, and think I’m making fun of Puffy. Well, this is the way Puffy is, and we wouldn’t change a molecule. Because Puffy also possesses one of the biggest, sweetest, fluffiest hearts in all of catdom. When he sits at our feet and gazes up at us with melting joy in his eyes, it’s a reminder that it doesn’t matter than he isn’t the smartest cat in the world. (That would be James Bond.)

No, the important thing is that we love Puffy, and Puffy loves us, with every cell in his little birdlike body. He’s a special cat, and in another home he might run the risk of being overlooked and underappreciated. We might laugh at him, but he doesn’t mind. He’s all about making us happy.

We are glad to return the favor.

Sadly, Puffy passed away in late May of 2009, at the age of thirteen. For a cat with his genetic defects, that was quite an accomplishment. While his neurological difficulties were sometimes a challenge, they never interfered with his ability to love and be loved.

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This is a senior cat who knows all, and should be consulted by humans and kittens alike.

Mr. Bond is a Norwegian Forest Cat mix. Caution is his middle name. I got him in the first place because he was so shy and careful about new things.

He was one of a litter dumped in a cardboard box at a pet store I used to frequent. The pet store put the kittens in a cage by the cash register in an attempt to get new homes for them. Three cats went quickly. But not this kitten, who was there day after day, squashed into a corner of the cage, eyes wide in fright. “No one can cuddle him,” I was told. So, nobody wanted him.

I thought he was only semi-feral, judging by the quick acceptance of his littermates. So I took him out, calmed his struggles, and convinced him, with slow blinks of my eyes, that I was his friend. I triumphantly took him back to the cashier to show how cuddly he could be. But when I tried to transfer him to the teenager’s arms, I realized I had tripped him, all right. He was sweet and cuddly. But, as it turned out, only with me. I had touched his Only Cat heart, and so I had to take him home.

Mr. Bond is our Supervisor, Main Spokescat, and Master of Scheduling. If I tell him it’s Daylight Savings Time, he won’t wake me for breakfast without considering the hour difference. If the Litter Robot needs attention or the Kitty Grass is starting to wither, Mr. Bond is the one who leads us to it, and then waits for us to say, “My goodness, you’re right. I’ll get on that.”

When new Kitty Grass is planted, Mr. Bond will lead us in there and hang over the pot like a vulture, waiting for us to assure him this batch will grow, just like the others did.

Mr. Bond’s high intelligence is part of his caution. I believe he is too good at imagining poor outcomes, and this makes him less assertive than he might be. It is typical of Mr. Bond that the human dangling the wand toy for him will give up before Mr. Bond, hiding behind a piece of furniture, has completed his cunning plan for ambush. In fact, we suspect Mr. Bond enjoys the planning more than the actual ambush.

Besides being an intellectual, Mr. Bond has dramatic ambitions, since he will let me know he’s feeling neglected by hanging back in the hallway when it’s time for bed, wailing and lurking, until I make an equal fuss about missing him and he agrees to come to bed and take up his “teddy bear” position against my chest.

Unless he is trying out new hiding places, Mr. Bond is usually either curled up in my chair or against my leg. Either way, he’s a devoted companion, ready to be part of whatever I’m doing. Even if he is at a safe distance.

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