But, I wrote, it is true that I do love cats.
Going way back.
That's a two-year-old Bruce with a cat on his lap.
I have no idea what its name was or even if it belonged to my family.
But that smug grin tells a story.
A few years, well, decades later found me in Guadalajara, Mexico, with a new friend.
Chulapay (Spanglish for Cutie Pie) liked the warmth from my desk lamp.
Or my velour shirt.
Or maybe he just liked me in those days.
A few years later he had grown up and come back to "the States" with us, where he was joined by a young tabby we named Muggles.
Muggles grew up too . . .
. . . and was joined by a prankster named Jazz.
We enjoyed each other's company, if there was enough room.
Along the way some strays came along.
Smoke, who gave up his acrobatic ways to move in.
And Goldie, who only enjoyed our outdoor chairs.
And there was little, feisty Blacky Detroit.
Once he joined the family and quit fighting the neighborhood cats, he morphed into a more refined name, Blackwell.
Muggles ended up being our last "house cat".
For now we have to be comfortable with occasional visits by our neighbors' cat, Matty, who I refer to as our rent-a-cat.
He bears a resemblance to Muggles and he likes to stop in for snacks and a nap on our couch.
He keeps us in touch with our feelings for felines.
