I listed him as found on social media sites and even in our paper, but no one claimed him. Somehow I knew that would happen. My entire life has been spent trying to find homes for strays - for some reason, ever since I was a child, they have appeared at my doorstep...more like flocked. Usually, I have the resources to be able to find them a home but this time I knew it wouldn't be the case.
I don't know why the homeless are attracted to me. I've even had one, another cat, who decided to walk in my house, weaving between my legs as I entered. He would sit and meow at me and I would give him a little food and water and then the next time the porch door opened, he'd take off. That happened over the course of one summer, quite a few times. What happened to that little guy, I don't know.
Back to the orange tabby from seven years ago - after much thought, a few grumblings and expletives, I resigned myself to the fact he was here to stay. I opened the door from the porch to the house and allowed him to enter. Boy, did he make an entrance!
He ran into our living room like he owned the place, swatting at the dog and my other cats as if he was on a mission to say he was the boss. After the regulars took to safety positions, that orange tabby laid in the middle of the living room floor licking his paws and purring. I commented to him, "Who in the Hell do you think you are, Stalin?" Against the arguments of a friend (who was staying with me as he too was in need of a home) on why I should not name my cat after a brutal dictator - the name stuck. I did understand his arguments as most of my Grandmother's family were, in fact, slaughtered by Stalin's troops when they marched through East Prussia but having a twisted sense of humor keeps us going - enough decades had past where that scar in the family tree had healed.
Stalin picked me as his human. He was my shadow. He also continued his rampage and never cozied up close to the other animals. Unfortunately, he also kept with him the taste for the great outdoors. He was an escape artist and he liked to end his journeys by climbing up to our roof where he would remain meowing until we coaxed him down.
One winter evening there was an ice storm and after a 4-day outing, there was Stalin on the roof. The boys were frantic about his safety and I was late to cover a school board meeting (why they didn't cancel it is beyond me). The cat's safety and easing my boys' fears came first. Imagine if you will this scene... The three of us in the moonlight (the liberals in our rural community) out in an ice storm, us standing in front of our house, trying to lift a kitchen chair high enough for the cat to jump on, while screaming "STALIN." This was also at a time when a handful of radical Christian self-proclaimed warriors decided that since I didn't agree with their political stances based on their organized religious beliefs, that somehow I didn't have faith and Satan was riding my back. One in particular basically called me a witch. Ignorance is bliss, I suppose. We could have used that burning cross I was sure one day would be on my front lawn, it would have helped to melt that ice.
We did manage to get Stalin back into the house - that cat was a pain in the ass, but I loved him.
Stalin graced us with his presence only a few short years as during one of his outings he came back with a cat flu that he did not survive - the cat who always came back did so for a final tragic end. It broke my heart.
Assholes!
The last time I saw one of them was the morning of the day when my car broke down. Then it was an orange tabby and a grey tiger stripe. This now meant there had to be 6 strays hanging around my house. I documented their presence with pictures as I knew explaining this all would sound like I was making it all up - I took pictures and called over my neighbor's daughter to look at the gang of strays. Shaking my head I carried in the grocery bags, unfortunately, I was unable to grab all of them so a second trip was needed. When I went back out to my car I was in for a shock...there rolling around was yet ANOTHER DAMN CAT, this one was a creamish colored white and orange feline.
All day I was bothered by their presence. It nagged at me. This was the 7th anniversary of Stalin entering our home and there was 7 of them in that gang of strays. No, you cannot make this shit up.
Was this all a sign from God that I would become the stereotypical cat lady now that I live in an empty nest?
Or was this something else, another sign. Cats are considered to be spiritual animals - extremely intuitive and wise..were they here to let me know something was about to happen? And what is with that number 7 popping up like it did? I am pretty sure the people into numerology would have something to say...oh, and yes, those radicals too. Most likely what they would have to say would be polar opposites. Yes, I tend to over think.
Interestingly enough that evening I had a rather disturbing call from my son in Memphis. Someone (a stranger) had messaged him to inform him he was sent to "check him out" - then this freak went on to basically insult him and intermixed within his messages he threw in keywords that he could be saved.
Typical brainwashing tactics used by most headhunters for cults. Dangle a carrot of something the target holds dear in front them while you attempt to break them down emotionally, making them reliant on the puppet master as they rebuild the subject into the model/robot they want. Stealing their individuality -the free will they were born to have. Abuser training tactics 101.
We don't play those games. My children were brought up in a home to recognize those tactics. They went with me when I helped victims of abuse. They absorbed that knowledge early on - they can spot a manipulator a mile away. Thank you, Lord, for that education! You can wrap yourself in self-righteous Bible verses all you want, that doesn't protect you from knowledgeable eyes seeing your game.
Now, I raised gentlemen. Loving, caring, responsible, and thoughtful human beings. My son stood his ground and was cordial in his response. I am the mom. I am different. I am blunt, especially when it comes to my children. Mr. Keeper of the Orchards, back the eff off. My 19-year-old son may be considered an adult, but he is my child and always will be - I am the wrong mom to piss off.
And by the way, stalker, Keeper of the Orchards...why would someone who proclaims himself one of those Bible warriors choose a name that goes back to Roman and Greek mythology - you see the first Orchard Keeper was Pomona, a goddess who was often invoked for love spells?? Is there something hiding in the back of your closet? It was rumored she was a lesbian.Also, how dare you insult the religion my children were baptized in...assigning the number of the beast to Pope Francis. WWJD?
I suggest you worry every time you see an orange tabby cat cross your path, Stalin's back for a reason.
And to everyone else ----
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