When I was six years old, my mom brought home Smoky, an eight-week-old kitten, courtesy of the librarian who led my sister’s preschool group. Since then, there’s never been a significant amount of time that I’ve been without a cat. Or two. Or three. Not counting strays. Yes, I am a bona fide cat-mom

It took me a while to warm up to our newest cats. The prior cats, Herman and Ed, were smart indoor/outdoor cats, great hunters of all rodents. Herman started as a four-week-old Humane Society refugee, adopted at my daughter’s behest. A year later, Ed came to us as a six-month-old stray from the Gateway Arch grounds. Herman taught Ed how to be a house cat. Ed was with us 16 years, before disappearing after leaving to hunt one night.  Hermie was with us another six months, then fell prey to kidney disease, as so many cats do. I was heartbroken when we had to have Herman put to sleep, and vowed to take time off before adopting again.

A month later, my son called. “I have a buddy whose girlfriend left him, but didn’t take her two cats. He’s allergic, and I thought you might want them.” Aptly, we picked them up on April Fool’s Day. Tiggly-Wiggly and Bubba Studmuffin joined us eight years ago, and are now fully middle-aged.

Tig and Bub are both orange tabbies, a breed renowned for their innate dumbness. Shortly after they moved in, I joined a Facebook group called “All Orange Cats Share One Brain Cell”. My cats have never seen this purported cell. These brothers are littermates, and with Bub outweighing Tig by seven pounds, he’s been pushing Tig around since before birth.

The boys are my first indoor-only cats, spending their days sleeping, eating, and sitting in open windows or on the screened porch. Tig sometimes “hunts” in the garage, thankfully coming in empty-pawed.

They mostly free-feed on dry chow, with much-loved extras as the highlights of their lives. Treats include bits of dinner from the table (please don’t judge), crunchy treats before bedtime, and each evening they get ”the good stuff”- a quarter can of Friskies Pate mashed into chow and split between them. I carefully watch so Bub doesn’t push Tig away from his bowl. Tig graciously leaves a few bites for his brother.

Bub is a total chow-hound, expressing his pleasure with a full-throated purr which can be heard across the room. He’s a milk-boy, getting a half-teaspoonful when I get coffee, make oatmeal, or pour myself a glass. He can hear the milk carton as it’s pulled from the fridge five rooms away, and runs to join me. I sing to him as I pour, ala Jean Knight’s 1971 hit- “Mister Big Stuff, Mew Mew you think you are? Mister Big Stuff, you’re always gonna get a snug”. Because, if you don’t sing to your cat, are you even really a cat-mom?

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