Rufus was my fourth.  Yes, by this time I knew I had a problem.  I was well on my way to becoming a cat lady.  I had Tempe, Roger, Frank and I had been foster parent to Milo (he got caught living in his mommy’s dorm room, so he came to live with me for a semester).  When Milo moved back home, there was a big furry hole in my heart. 

When my friend Jen got married to her college sweetheart, I was reunited with my hight school girls for a whole weekend to participate in the festivities.  Sunday, after the wedding, while Mr. & Mrs. Justin Seay were on their way to honeymoon bliss, Abbey, Sara, Dorothy and I went to Abbey’s parents’ house to see their new kittens (you can already see where this is going).  In the middle of a litter of skinny solid black kittens, was this fat gray poof ball.  And it didn’t take much urging from Abbey’s dad before I had a shoebox with one of his old sweatshirts in it sitting in the front seat beside me as a bed for my new kitten.

After much debate, Rufus was named after Rufio from the movie Hook…because of the hair.  It stuck out in all directions.  And his hair was the perfect illustration for his personality.  Rufus is a walking comedy. 

A few Rufusisms:

  • Rufus is knock-kneed.
  • Rufus runs into walls…frequently.
  • Every Christmas, Rufus lights his tail on fire.  Yet I still light delicious smelling candles and put them on the coffee table each year.
  • Rufus gets lost in the hallway.
  • Rufus wants you to pay attention to him, but only when he wants you to.
  • Rufus hates to be picked up, or cuddled, or petted for any extended period of time.
  • Rufus picks fights with his own tail.
  • Rufus secretly knows deep down that he’s an outside kitty.
  • Rufus looks morbidly obese in the winter, and svelt and trim in the summer after his haircut…yet he still weighs 14 pounds.



When  I first moved out of my parents’ house I lived in a tiny little duplex in Pacolet, SC (for those of you familiar with the area, I was the 12th house up on the left from the horse in the water). While I don’t think I’d ever want to live there again, one great thing did come from that experience.  One day,  I was at the duplex cleaning and waiting for mom to come help me move some stuff in.  As she turned into the driveway in her enormous land-yacht Ford Explorer, she stopped just in the nick of time.  There, crouched milimeters in front of her front driver’s side tire, was the tiniest kitten I’d ever seen.

Covered in mange from head to toe, this blue eyed baby meowed and meowed as if she were singing in a musical.  After close inspection, mom and I both agreed that it was indeed a “he” and I named the boy kitty Frank, after Frank Sinatra for his blue eyes and his love of crooning.  The plan was that I’d keep the cat in the duplex for a couple of days (I hadn’t moved in yet) until I had time to take him to the shelter. 

Well, we all know how that was going to end.  Frank didn’t go to the shelter.  I took Frank to the vet to get all the shots because Frank was going to live with me from now on.  So, we got to the vet, and the vet’s assistant (are they still nurses at a veteranarian’s office?) checked Frank out and said:  “Ooh, it’s a little girl kitty!  What’s her name?”


I couldn’t just change her name, I’d been calling her Frank for nearly a week.  But you know what?  Frank liked her name just fine.  She’s absolutely, unquestionably a Frank.  Not a Frances, not a Frankie, not a Francesca.  Though I will admit to calling her Frank-o-la from time to time. 

A few Frankisms:

  • Frank is a flirt.  She’s mastered the slow blink.  And she’ll wink at you.
  • Frank loves people.  Well, most people.  Kids kind of freak her out.
  • Frank is the most photogenic cat in all the land.
  • Frank loves you. 
  • Frank lost a tooth a few months ago and now she makes the cutest little snarling face, and she’s completely unaware of it.
  • Frank loves shoes.
  • Frank always knows when you need a hug.
  • Frank is a daddy’s girl.



My cats are funny. Sure, I may be a little biased, but for the most part, Trey and I live with a small collection of the world’s most distinctly individual feline personalities…and they’re all pretty hilarious.


I was still living with my parents after college, but having independence issues, when I got my first cat, Tempe.  I bought her at the little pet store that used to be in the Hillcrest Shopping Center.  When my parents realized I had gotten a kitten without their permission, they were pretty peaved.  So, what was my logical next move?  Obviously, it was to get another cat.  I went back to that pet store honestly only looking to get some fun cat supplies for Tempe, and that’s when I fell in love with Roger.  He was a tiny poof of furry tiger stripes with bright white lines around each of his eyes.  He was terrifed and stared up at me with a look that I was certain meant “are you my mommy?” OF COURSE I AM!  The pet store owner told me that he had been brought in earlier that day with his sister:  a woman was driving to Greenville from Charlotte and heard a strange squealing noise coming from the hood of her car.  When she finally pulled over to check it out, she found 2 little long hair black tabbys curled up next to her window washing fluid.  It’s a miracle they were safe!  Roger’s sister had gotten adopted immediately, which meant that poor Roger was all alone in his kitty cage just waiting for me to come by and rescue him.  Yes, I am a complete and total sucker for baby animals. 

I named him Roger after Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers (formerly The Refreshments).  For that matter, I’d named Tempe after Tempe, Arizona: the Peacemakers’ hometown.  I was a little obsessed in the early 2000s. 

As Roger grew up, it became glaringly obvious that he loved me with all his heart, and was utterly terrifed of every other human being who ever lived.  He’s my sweet man, my love, my cuddler and my bathroom buddy.  Let me explain:  Roger has an allergy to regular cat food (in short, one of the main ingredients gives him kidney stones), which meant that, while the other cats could eat their dinner in the kitchen, Roger had to take his meals alone in the bathroom.  Once he started howling, I’d go in there and wash my face, or use the potty, or anything, and he’d purr and happily chow down on his horribly expensive cat food. 

 A few notable Rogerisms:

  • Roger loves feet.  A lot.  Fetish isn’t a strong enough word.
  • Roger is scared of you.  Unless you’re me.  Or Trey.
  • Roger is gay.  He fell in love with a sweet yellow tabby boy cat named Milo years ago and hasn’t looked at a woman since. 
  • Roger is prettier than you, and he knows it. 
  • Roger is a mama’s boy.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
  • Roger hates reading…well, he hates it when I read.  Any time I pick up a book, he’ll curl up right on top of the pages so that I can’t see any of the words.
  • Roger likes to be held like a toddler, and will literally hug me around the neck.