Whiskered Witnesses to our Whimsical Ways

If cats truly had nine lives, they’d live through all of ours.

I count 8. Still, you get the point. Photo by The Lucky Neko on Unsplash

Single Cat Lives

Not single cats like all the single ladies. Single lives.

The Journal of Feline Medicine and Surgery published a study that examined data from nearly 8,000 pet cats. Life expectancies ranged from 14.4 years (Burmese and Birman) to 6.7 (Spynx).

Crossbred cats outlive their purebred counterparts by about 1.5 years, and female cats had a 1.3-year advantage over their male counterparts (Toms must be guilty of those “hold my beer” moments, too).

The kitty down on his luck. Photo by Raphael MARTIN on Unsplash

This study made me think. A single cat’s life will see significant changes in its owner. The twelve-year-old girl getting a kitten is not the same as the twenty-two-year-old woman they become. 

My favorite cat

I had outside cats as a child, which I adored. My favorite was a black and white named K.C. (for kitty-cat). Dad built a little platform for her on the top of the fencepost so she could eat in peace (the dogs would steal her food). She was always there for a rub and a purr. And she was a great mouser, important on a farm. Sadly, she passed from cancer when I was a teenager.

Not K.C., but eerily similar. Photo by dominik hofbauer on Unsplash

Oh no! Cat allergies

I discovered later that I was allergic to cats when living with my aunt and her two Persians for a summer in college. Antihistamines became my friend. :)

Sexy mice twenties

The study made me wonder what my cat may have witnessed in my adult life with each of her nine lives. In my twenties, I was still a kid, stumbling into adulthood. K.C. would have judged my late night partying and the strangers I brought home (like I would the mice she brought to me).

That’s one good-looking mouse —er —  thing.Photo by Willian Justen de Vasconcellos on Unsplash

Little one thirties

In my thirties, I raised children of my own. She would have loved them as much as I did, though I bet she’d have found somewhere else to be on those sleepless nights. I could have blamed her for the never ending loss of tiny socks. 

So sweet. Photo by Manja Vitolic on Unsplash

Fat cat forties

Now, in my forties, I have come into my own, maturing in numerous ways. K.C. would undoubtedly be proud of the man I’ve become and thankful for the bigger mice that sometimes find their way into our new house.

My spirit animal. Photo by Jacalyn Beales on Unsplash

I miss my cat. I wish she actually had nine lives.

Maybe it’s time for a kitten. But let me buy stock in Allegra, first.