Catio Man

I knew it!

I knew that my husband would enjoy the recent New York Times article about people who build “catios” for their cats, and I suppose I can’t blame him for weighing the options. Don’t get alarmed: We are only remotely considering the possibilities of expanding our feline kingdom outdoors by means of protected enclosures.

We do not live like New Yorkers in cramped spaces, although I paid my dues in the 1980s when I lived in a 325-square-foot apartment on the Upper East Side that was distinguished by an infestation of cockroaches each summer. We live in Texas, the super-sized state, and our old, rambling house in Houston is plenty big for “the eight of us” to feel comfortable inside, and in our own skins. We do not bump into each other during the night. The cats in our garage apartment lead me to believe that they feel the same way.

My husband, the newly christened Catio Man, could design a catio to be built on either side of our Arts and Crafts house, or to extend from the deck in our backyard. How many additional cats could he and I rescue to live in these custom-designed quarters? I am guessing that we could adopt another six cats, easily.

Through my work at the museum, I have had the privilege of meeting a number of top-tier architects. I wonder if I could interest one of them in designing a Frank Lloyd Wright-style catio to match the lines of our 1913 structure. Or a midcentury modern vibe would work to complement the artwork and furnishings of our “Mod Pod,” which used to be the den.

No matter the architectural style, permanent shelter for cats is all that counts for Catio Man. And even though this Cat Lady wrote many papers in college on Mies van der Rohe and his philosophy of “Less Is More,” I say bring them on, meaning more felines, of course. Let’s all live together in our feline compound, which might just include a catio or two.

Architectural Digest, here we come!

Query of the Day: Do you already have a catio at home?

You Don’t Send Me Flowers

I used to be pleased to receive flowers at my office to celebrate a special occasion, such as a birthday or a wedding anniversary. Now I get excited when friends send me jpeg images of cats. I took in a large haul in the past few days, and one of the images jumped out of my in-box, as if to say, “Cat Lady: This Is Your Life.”

My friend Clifford sent me a link to icanhascheezburger.com, which must be reaching overflow capacity with its cute and heartwarming pictures of cats in all form and disguise. I subscribe to the theory of “life imitates art,” and when I saw the image of "Kitteh Noir," I was reminded yet again of how the process of collecting art has paralleled my efforts to rescue orphaned felines.

For the first four years of the new millennium, I did nothing but “collect cats.” During the past six years, as I have navigated and negotiated life with our ten cats, I have edited a book about the museum’s collection of American art, which has grown exponentially in a twenty-year period and continues to expand as I write. Collecting is apparently in my blood; it simply courses in different directions–cats and art.

Just as I have learned much from our cats about my own acquisitive impulses, so too have I have gained new insights from philanthropists into their motivations for collecting art and for donating their treasures to a public museum. Collecting qualifies as a feel-good endeavor.

So, go out and adopt another cat today! And please place your order to acquire the museum’s new book, American Art & Philanthropy: Twenty Years of Collecting at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, coming soon to a bookstore (not PetSmart this time) near you.

Query of the Day: Does your cat resemble a work of art?

Contemplating “Complete”

A long-lost friend has written to me with the wonderful news that she is relocating to Chicago. Her new office will be located directly across the street from my favorite haunt, the Art Institute of Chicago, where I worked as an editor in marketing and communication services for eight years. And to think that during all of those solitary years I did not have a cat to keep me company. I can’t claim even to having possessed a sixth sense for finding stray cats and bringing them home to my one-bedroom apartment.

My friend’s message coincided with my receiving a mailing from the Anti-Cruelty Society in Chicago. A renovation is under way there, and the mailing includes excerpts from a 1982 feature story in Architectural Record that praised the then-new building designed by architect Stanley Tigerman. The magazine writer noted that Tigerman was motivated by “metaphorical suggestiveness,” designing a building that made his message clear, which is that a house is not a home without a pet. Adopting a pet will complete someone’s life.

Twenty-eight years later, I get it, and that message resounds loud and clear at the Anti-Cruelty Society. My definition of “complete” also has a double meaning. Although I am fully loaded at “Catland” with ten felines, I am always on the hunt at the museum to finalize and complete manuscripts for art books. “Incomplete” rules the day (or should I say, causes havoc) at work, whereas “complete” reigns hourly at home. I need to find a way to migrate that fulfilling feline feeling to the office and achieve 100 percent completion of my workload. Something tells me I will never come up empty at home.

Query of the Day: How do your cats complete your life?

Everybody Dance Now!

Today is Lydia’s tenth birthday, and it’s time to get the party started! I am not the only one who celebrates the birthdays of pets. New statistics indicate that 24 percent of pet caregivers “of a certain age” commemorate the human-animal bond by means of birthday cakes, balloons, and party favors.

I recently jumped on the cupcake bandwagon, so Lydia’s party will consist of pink-frosted cupcakes, complemented by new catnip toys for her, “the orange boys,” and L.B. and Alvar.

When we first met Lydia at our neighborhood pet adoption shelter, in October 2000, she went by the name of Kirstie. She weighed less than 5 pounds and hid in the back of the carrier, far from public view. But we found her because we were destined, I think, to adopt her. She did not know what to expect when we brought her home to meet the one and only Lucius. We never could have estimated how much she has enhanced our lives.

From Day 1 at our house, Lydia was every bit the rambunctious tomboy. Of course, she looked and vocalized like a girl, but she smelled and acted like a guy. She simply could not keep still. Today, Lydia is my fair lady who weighs about 9 pounds and loves to give orders. With Lydia, there is never subtlety. On her nightly rounds, she fine-tunes her already trilling meow as she implores us to go to bed (she prefers the 9:30–10:00 p.m. time slot). During the day, she catches up on her beauty sleep. If I come home from the office for a lunch break, I always know I can look for her dozing on the bathmat in the bathroom, close to an antique mirror. That way, when she awakens, she can admire her dainty self. She does this a lot.

Lydia looks terrific for her age, especially given that she is the human equivalent of 70. Now it’s time for me to cue the music, light the birthday candles, and serenade Lydia with her favorite song.

“Everybody Dance Now!”

Query of the Day: Did you r.s.v.p. to Lydia’s birthday party?

Wellesley Girl

I was interested to hear recently that select colleges and universities in the United States are now allowing students to bring their pets from home to live with them on campus. Way back when at Wellesley, men were barely allowed to step foot inside the dormitories, where they had to respect a “knock-twice” system to give fair warning whenever entering the girls-only restrooms. These ancient statistics contribute to why it is difficult for me to imagine my still all-female alma mater “allowing” guys and cats and dogs to live with the coeds.

I wasn’t a Cat Lady at Wellesley. I studied art history and never attempted to take courses in veterinary science at Boston University, the school in closest proximity to Wellesley that offered the discipline. When I said good-bye to our cat Fluffy, at home, and entered Wellesley as a freshman, I don’t remember thinking about her much, much less pining away for her. I am not proud of this fact. Naturally, if I could turn back time, I would head for college only on the condition that Fluffy accompanied me every step of the way.

It has been thirty-two years since graduation, and if I return to Wellesley as a continuing-education student, I will need to rent a van that accommodates our four female cats, their toys, and their litter boxes. Actually, I think that one of our cats, in particular, is best suited to join the subspecies classified as a “Wellesley Girl.”

Miss Tommie has all of what I remember as being the vital ingredients. She is serious and reserved. She does not like to call attention to herself. She is attractive, but not glamorous. She never would wear tons of makeup or gaudy jewelry that clinks in the dark. She would strive to be an original, never a copycat.

And when Miss Tommie graduates from Wellesley, she will fulfill her manifest destiny and grow up to become a Cat Lady, just like her mother. How did I go from Class of ’78 to Cat Lady 24/7? That is the question that often stumps me and, I’m sure, would intrigue my former art-history professors.

Query of the Day: Would you/do you bring your cats to college?

The Hand

Based on my daily intake of snail-mail and e-mail messages, I have concluded that the summer season will continue to heat up with renewal notices and reminders. Following the call to action that Walgreens issued to Lucius, I received a postcard from Dr. O. alerting me that it is time for Brooke to receive her yearly vaccination. Brooke, you might ask?

Last year, during the Memorial Day weekend, I found a petite brown-tabby stray cat whom I named after a friend who is an editor and an art-book publisher. The heat index that weekend was deadly already, and I worried that Brooke would not survive in such a dehydrated and fragile state. Dr. O. let me board Brooke at the veterinarian’s office at a reduced cost until I could find a permanent home for my then-latest rescue kitty. Brooke became Bella Brooke last July, when a museum colleague here lent a helping hand and adopted her. The two are living happily ever after in a spacious garage apartment, and I periodically receive glamour shots of Bella Brooke as proof positive.

Dr. O.’s postcard provided the perfect excuse for me to look at some photos that a friend had taken of Brooke. I never miss an opportunity to stoke my memories of cats I have encountered before. I remember then being struck particularly by one photo used in a flyer that I circulated to feline-friendly people.

I call this photo “The Hand” because it conjures multiple meanings. On one hand (pun intended), there is the King Kong effect–the seemingly oversized hand (and I have small hands proportionate to my 5’ height) embracing the tiny head of a darling cat. On the other hand, there is the broader, humanitarian impulse of reaching out to help others. For an editor, taking a red pencil to a manuscript, or making on-screen changes to text files qualifies as a bona-fide assist. The hand discreetly aids the writer in refining his or her true voice. The Cat Lady extends a hand to help those who technically cannot speak for themselves and articulate their desires. Perhaps the only variation on this helping-hand theme is how you define a “creature in need.”

I happen to think that cats and authors are in the same camp: They need tender loving care and our circumspect intervention, and they also crave affection from Cat Ladies and editors, respectively. In some cases, the Cat Lady and the editor merge as one living creature.

Query of the Day: How do you define a creature in need?