Sexy Cat Ladies

Way back when, circa the 1970s, I used to save my pennies from summer internships at the Chicago Sun-Times and treat myself to a signature dress or two by Diane von Furstenberg. I loved her then-new wrap dress, and the Lord & Taylor store on Bolyston Street in Boston used to hold twice-yearly sales that even a college student could afford to shop. I always felt like a grown-up when I wore one of “the other Diane’s” dresses.

Time marched on, and here we are, in 2013, still admiring the fashion designer’s now-iconic wrap dress. A recent New York Times magazine profile of “DVF,” as she is known to her legions of fans worldwide, gave me another reason to want to return to the stores and purchase her label.

I do not remember Vogue, maybe ten years ago, calling Diane von Furstenberg “an exotic catwoman seductress”! But I enthusiastically second that motion. This Diane has the “catwoman” part nailed down, and I can relate to empire-building, à la colonies of adopted felines. “Exotic” and “seductress” will require baby steps.



Designers Diane von Furstenberg and Yvan Mispelaere on the catwalk at the Diane von Furstenberg Spring 2012 fashion show during Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week in New York City.


Photo credit: Getty Images
Query of the Day: Are you a sexy Cat Lady?

In Mourning

Since Lucius passed away little more than a month ago, I have refrained from blogging. This was not a deliberate choice. Every time I sat down to write, I thought about how Lucius was always on my mind whenever I blogged, and about how much my home environment has changed immeasurably. But I miss communicating with fellow Cat Ladies, and I could have sworn I heard Lucius encouraging me just last night—when insomnia kicked in—to recharge my batteries. Here, in brief, is what I have learned during the past five weeks.

I was aware that cats experience grieving, that they mourn the loss of their human parents and/or their feline companions. I can add firsthand experience to my book-learned knowledge, having observed Lydia, Leo, Linus, L.B., and Alvar attempt to get their bearings without an alpha cat in the house. Each of our five cats (the four cats in the garage apartment never had the distinct pleasure of meeting Lucius) has reacted differently to Lucius’s death, and I have been surprised, and saddened, most by Alvar’s displays of grief.

Lydia appears to be lost without her attentive soul mate. She and Lucius were virtually joined at the hip for thirteen years, and the male cats in the house do not dare infringe officially on Lucius’s territory. Lydia is not inconsolable, but she keeps her distance from the other cats and is sleeping even more than her usual 18 hours per day. I praise and coddle her—she is beautiful, after all—,and she resists my sincere flattery.

Leo, ever the gentle cat, is mourning silently. He likes to sleep in all of the spots where Lucius enjoyed resting, particularly on what became his last days. Linus, who is still the size of a kitten, is asserting himself after a respectable period of mourning. He loved Lucius, even worshipped him at times. Lucius had that Svengali-like effect on younger cats. If I were a betting Cat Lady, I would wager that Linus will become the new alpha cat (trapped in his runt-of-the-litter body).

L.B. was the prince of all princes to Lucius in his final hours on June 12. L.B. apparently understood what was happening to Lucius, and L.B. could not bear to say goodbye. He seems to have recovered from his sadness, though I suspect his renewed zest for overeating is motivated by anxiety and a fear of the unknown.

Alvar was the object of Lucius’s scorn and ridicule ever since we rescued him from the street, nine years ago. Alvar and Lucius—once bitter enemies—reconciled several years ago; before he died, Lucius was especially solicitous toward Alvar, as if he wanted to apologize for his misbehavior and taunting. I had always assumed that Alvar’s happiest day would come when he realized that Lucius was no longer alive. The opposite is true.

Alvar stared at the peeling paint on an all-white wall in the upstairs bathroom. For a change of scenery, he sat inside of a spare litter box that I store in a cabinet underneath the bathroom sink. For three weeks, Alvar maintained this routine, and he rarely ate. Who would have guessed that Alvar would miss his feuding partner? Alvar finally emerged from hiding on July 4, acknowledging his newfound independence.

All I can say, as of this writing, is that I have seen the future of losing all of my cats, and the future is very sad, indeed. The moral of today’s story is hardly original, so forgive me for stating the obvious: We Cat Ladies must live every day to the fullest with our beloved furry friends.

And Then There Were Nine

I always dreaded the day that I would need to write this blog post, in which I would announce that Lucius Lyndon Lovejoy had died. Until now, I wasn’t ready to write about Lucius’s passing. Lucius drew his last breath on the afternoon of June 12, only one week ago. He was 16, yet once the time came for Michael and me to say our final good-bye to Lucius, our beloved cat looked young again, and at peace with the world.

Because Lucius, in his late senior years, continued to defy the medical odds, I foolishly hoped he would live longer. Still, I had come to understand in the past few months that measuring his life in years was no longer realistic.

Lucius had willed his diabetes into remission. He had stared down pancreatitus. He had survived having a number of his teeth pulled and had overcome periodontal issues related to gum disease. He could not win his hard-fought battle with chronic renal failure.

Lucius also suffered deeply and routinely from anxiety. I can’t help but conclude that the stress he brought on himself contributed to his physical deterioration. Nonetheless, it is difficult to imagine Lucius liberated from his “issues.” His fragile mental state defined him. He had more empathy than some people I know (sad, but true). Michael and I gladly would take back all the “bad days”—of Lucius literally destroying furniture and bedding in our house—just to have one additional moment with him.

A number of my closest friends and colleagues have written to me about Lucius’s legacy. I had the privilege of writing about Lucius regularly in blog posts during the past few years, and at more length recently in Cat Lady Chronicles. Thanks to the media’s coverage of my book, Lucius saw his name in print in Cat Fancy, no less. I am boasting as his Cat Lady, but it is safe to say that journalists were intrigued by Lucius, a cat who inspired unconditional love.

I take some comfort knowing that, in my own way, I helped to spread the word about a truly remarkable creature. I am not in the habit of disagreeing with my mother, who said that Michael and I were remarkable also, “showing compassion and understanding.” How could anyone not appreciate and admire Lucius’s gifts?

Rest in peace, Little Man. You changed my life, and it is not the same without you.

Lucius Lyndon Lovejoy, in his youth

My Ultimate Brooks Man

Inspired by the buzz accompanying Baz Luhrmann’s film adaptation of The Great Gatsby, and also curious about the Brooks Brothers promotional tie-in, I was prompted to look again at one of my favorite photos of Lucius, my ultimate Brooks man.

If there ever was an American gentleman of distinction, then F. Scott Fitzgerald must have met Lucius in one of this cat’s former lives. Yes, I’ve seen the Facebook pages for “The Great Catsby,” and I have friends who named their cats Gatsby, but I’m talking about the real deal: a sartorially splendid feline.

Lucius, in his impeccably groomed orange-fur coat, could compete with Jay Gatsby or any 1920s-era guy who enjoyed strutting his stuff in a two-button plaid suit jacket with a matching vest.

Above is my Exhibit B (for Brooks Brothers): Lucius, in his prime, sitting inside a Brooks Brothers gift box. I have fond memories of Lucius playing with the gift-box ribbon. Perhaps he was trying to convey that he would gladly wear a striped bowtie to please me.

Query of the Day: Are your cats “into” Gatsby fashion?

Show Me...the Butt

Please excuse the crude title of today's post, but, "show me the butt," is what I found myself saying to Miss Tommie today, on Mother's Day.

At my house, which extends to the garage apartment, we celebrate "Mama Kitty's Day," in our own way. Miss Tommie, who lives in the apartment with her feline mother, Lillie, chose the occasion to demonstrate her love for her Cat Lady plainly, and simply.

I could not have been more pleased when Miss Tommie raised her tiny rear end and glanced at me approvingly. I know, it's a far cry from being the center of attention at a fancy Mother's Day brunch. Still, I was touched, and Miss Tommie's form of love cannot be bought.

"Show Me the Butt" may just be the perfect jingle for all Cat Ladies having Mommy Time with their fur kids, right now!

Query of the Day: Can you feel the love?

Age-bypass Identification

In Cat Lady Chronicles, I wrote about my humorous experience of waiting at a Walgreens drive-thru to retrieve a refill of an insulin prescription in Lucius’s name. History has repeated itself, though with a slightly different twist.


Lucius—amazing cat that he is–went into remission for diabetes about a year ago. L.B. was diagnosed with diabetes shortly thereafter. The insulin prescription has remained in Lucius’s name, which is what prompted the following conversation.

The drive-thru lane was several cars deep, so I went inside Walgreens to pick up the refill for L.B. The pharmacist asked me to confirm the date of birth on the savings card for the prescription, because she was confused. The date in the database indicated 1998, but I looked considerably older than 15.

Gee, thanks.

I tried to explain calmly that the date of birth referred to Lucius, not to me. Then came the question about how could I know exactly a cat’s birthday? Call it Cat Lady’s intuition, I said, and paid for the refill promptly.

When I arrived home, I advised L. B. that he must go into remission, for more reasons than one. Cat Ladies like to be needed (and kneaded), not insulted.

Query of the Day: Do you know your cats’ dates of birth?

He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother

I’m not one to proselytize on the need to spay and neuter cats, though I cannot imagine not taking full responsibility for doing so with our pets. But I was reminded this week that there are people who simply are not familiar with the birds and the bees when it comes to feline mating and reproductive cycles.

A friend told me the following true story about a married couple who are her friends: About seven or eight months ago, five black kittens were dumped—there is no elegant word here—in Hermann Park in Houston. The husband found and rescued the kittens and took them home to meet his wife. The couple had never lived with cats before.

My friend caught up with the newfound couple-with-cats a few months ago and wondered why the four female cats looked so “heavy.” She asked if the females subscribed to a different diet than the male cat; otherwise, why were they considerably overweight?

“Oh, not at all,” said the Cat Lady. “They all eat the same food.” The next question from my friend was, “Well, then, are the females pregnant?”

“Oh, no,” said the Cat Lady. “Are you kidding? He’s their brother.”

Fast-forward to the present tense. I learned that there are now thirteen black cats living together under the same roof with their human parents and their own four children. The male cat—aka Stud Brother—was adopted shortly after impregnating his sisters and before the four female cats gave birth to nine kittens. What are the odds of having thirteen black cats and conquering people’s superstitions about the number 13?

I suppose it goes without saying that the couple is planning to take their kitties to be spayed and neutered as soon as possible. Meanwhile, if you know of anyone who is looking to adopt a black kitten, please contact this Cat Lady.

Query of the Day: Why do some Good Samaritans' deeds go punished?