Living with cats is a noble but sometimes hazardous endeavor. Not only do they own you, but they also know it.
Penelope walked into my backyard and life several years after I took possession of a red brick cottage on Louisville, Kentucky’s East Chestnut Street. Watching as she looked around my small, fenced-in area, I somehow understood that she was staking a feline claim to the patio and its surroundings which by a simple cat estimation included the entire interior of the shotgun house plus its sooty 100-year-old attic.
Over the years, I had been tutored by several cats but I would learn many lessons from Penelope. Looking back, the first one was, old houses have holes in old fences and if you don’t repair those holes life can be sent down unexpected pathways. In retrospect, perhaps Penelope was pushed through that fence hole by a dear friend whose recent loss left me in a deep depression.
Be that as it may, on the day that Penelope appeared in a meaningful fashion, I was constructing a setup for an upcoming outdoor art exhibition instead of repairing that hole in the fence.
Several weeks later, proud of the new setup which I felt contributed to a successful art exhibition, I returned home from the show to find Penelope, queen of the household, now had a full court to adore her. Six small kittens with one little calico for good luck mewed in the hallway.
Penelope had offered a second lesson – there’s no time for sad songs when chasing kittens.