Six Cats in a One Room Shack

Growing up, I never liked cats. Our family had several dogs through the years, but as far as cats were concerned, I only remember chasing them out of the backyard.

My husband, Frank and I lived in a one room shack. The shower dripped, and if you plugged the space heater and the television in at the same time, a fuse blew, and outside one of us would go to flip the breaker switch back on. The shower floor was comprised of three wooden boards. The shack was basically one big room with a small bathroom. The two of us tripped over each other, and soon we would add six cats to the mix.

Our first cat was acquired from our neighbor and was the only survivor of about ten starving cats at his house. A timid cat with black tuxedo markings, Buster was a mama's boy. He didn't seem to like men and stayed close to me.

One of my friend's from work had a cat that had just given birth to several kittens, and her father threatened to take them all to the pound if she couldn't find homes for them. We brought Skippy, a brown tabby, home when he was just five weeks old. He pushed Buster away from his dish and ate his food as well as his own. He would become the neighborhood warrior, and needed to make repeated trips to the vet to have his fighting wounds stitched up.

We found Rosie O'Grady, a gray and white cat, laying in the gutter across the street and brought her home to live with us. She took awhile to warm up to us and Skippy loved to growl at her and chase her under the bed. She liked to hog the pillows when we went to bed, and pushing her away did no good. Usually, all six cats were in bed with us when we woke up.

We bought Morris, an orange tabby, from a private individual who could not keep him. Morris kept to himself, and was the only cat that was never a lap-sitter until about a month before we lost him to kidney failure. Morris liked to climb up on the high shelf when one of us was in the shower and peer down at us.

Tigger and Mouse were from the litter of a stray cat that hung around in the parking lot. The mama cat kept trying to come into the shack to have her babies, but we didn't let her in. Tigger had beautiful, orange stripes and was afraid of his own shadow. Mouse, a petite black and white kitten, hated being in the house and continually meowed to go outside.

My husband stayed at home with the cats while I worked. He had their day all planned out. Frank got up at 4:00 A.M. each morning and went to a neighborhood creek to feed the numerous feral cats. After he returned, he fed all six cats. Skippy bolted his food and then began pushing one cat after another away from their dish and gobbling their food.

After breakfast, all the cats were let out and roamed the parking lot or hung out at the Italian restaurant next door. Skippy became the official door greeter at the restaurant, and was rewarded with pats on the head and tasty morsels.

At noon, Frank took a small glass bowl and banged a fork loudly against it. That was the signal for all the cats to come running for lunch. After lunch and a nap, all six went outside again until dinner.

We bought litter in fifty pound bags twice a week. Guests usually weren't interested in staying for dinner since our litter box was right by the stove.

Frank wanted to buy the cats their own Thanksgiving turkey, but I thought that was going a little too far.

We enjoyed our cats for many years until I lost Frank to cancer. Morris died from kidney failure, and Mouse was hit by a car and killed while I was at work. Our neighbor hung her collar on the doorknob.

Our property manager sold the property, and my shack was promptly condemned. I found an apartment that did not allow pets, so Rosie O'Grady, Buster, Skippy, and Tigger were taken by my neighbor. Tigger ran away and was taken in by someone down the block.

I remarried and moved away less than a year later, but my thoughts often go back to those six rambunctious cats in our one room shack.