I Was Normal Three Cats Ago
Updated: Aug 25
It started, as many questionable decisions do, with me trying to restore balance to the household.
We got Moxie, or Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier, a year before our son Alex was born. Moxie is now 11, Alex is 10, and while they have always gotten along perfectly well, theirs has never exactly been one of those heartwarming boy and his dog stories.
As Alex got older, he became increasingly unimpressed by Moxie’s barking, her general dog smell and, as he put it, the fact that dogs were just “too social.”
Cats, however, were another story.
Alex loved every cat he met. He loved stray cats, friends’ cats, cats waiting for adoption and cats who probably had no interest whatsoever in being loved by a small child. It didn’t matter. He was a cat person.
One Christmas, my mom announced that Santa could bring him a cat. I quickly pointed out that Santa does not transport live animals on the sleigh. Thinking fast—and perhaps fearing estrangement after an already questionable drum-gifting incident—she amended the offer: Santa wouldn’t bring a cat, but Alex could have her cat, Jillian, who would continue living at her house.
The plan seemed perfect, until Jillian died pretty much right after Christmas. What’s worse than no cat? A dead cat.
By the following summer, we decided it was finally time. And by we, I mean me. My husband wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about expanding the household.
Enter Shaggy
We found Shaggy at PetSmart—a fluffy tabby Maine Coon mix who seemed like the perfect first cat. I later discovered, through extensive observational research, that his genetic makeup was 25% tabby, 25% Maine Coon and 50%…chicken. We’ll get to that.
Shaggy celebrated his adoption by spending some quality time under the bed. Eventually, he ventured out and discovered that his new home contained a dog. Moxie chased him a couple of times. Shaggy expressed his displeasure. Boundaries were established, treaties were negotiated and a truce was reached.
Eventually, everyone settled into peaceful coexistence. Alex had his cat, Moxie had accepted the cat, and Shaggy had accepted that Moxie existed. All was right with the world, which apparently made me uncomfortable. I missed having a little bit of chaos—errr, I mean extra life—in the house.
So I thought, "Maybe we should get a puppy?," which at the time was excellent reasoning. Moxie was eight, and Shaggy was three. They had learned to live together, so surely another Moxie-like creature would blend right in. Moxie could use a friend, and Shaggy was already used to a dog. Yes, a puppy was definitely the best next step.
Enter Rusty
Rusty arrived as a fluffy Wheaten hurricane of enthusiasm with absolutely no understanding of personal space.
Moxie loved him. She was very happy to have a new friend. His arrival increased her enthusiasm and zest for life, which was not exactly the outcome I had worked out in my head. I'm not sure how I missed that.
Shaggy, meanwhile, rediscovered his long-lost bunker under the bed.
Rusty desperately wanted to be friends. Unfortunately, Shaggy never stuck around long enough to discover this. Shaggy would hide and then run. As far as Rusty was concerned, this was the greatest game ever invented. Apparently, we were playing Hide-and-Go-Seek and Chase.
We most definitely were not.
The only person less impressed than Shaggy was Alex. This was when I discovered something rather important. I had assumed Alex didn’t particularly like Moxie because she was older or female, because she barked, or maybe because of the dog breath.
No, those weren’t the reasons. Apparently, Alex simply doesn’t like dogs. I probably should have deduced that because all of the signs were there, flashing…in neon.
So now Rusty was essentially the annoying little brother Alex had never asked for, while Alex’s beloved cat had become the reclusive uncle nobody ever saw. I certainly wasn’t winning a "Mother of the Year" award that year.
Clearly, the Solution Was More Cats
About a year and a half later, the mom guilt kicked in. Rusty and Shaggy were showing absolutely no signs of becoming best friends, and Alex was understandably unhappy that his cat spent so much time hiding.
I’d hoped Rusty would be a cat-friendly dog. As it turns out, Rusty is a cat-friendly dog. We just didn’t have a dog-friendly cat. It puzzles me that no one ever questions the cat.
So there I was, once again pondering how to restore peace and equilibrium to our home. Then it came to me: we needed a GIANT cat.
Yes, that was genuinely my solution.
I decided a full-blooded Maine Coon might actually work because it would be big enough to hold its own, confident enough not to immediately run from Rusty, and generally laid-back enough to coexist with the rest of this ridiculous household.
But there was a problem. What if we got a Maine Coon and Shaggy hated it? That would be rather unfair to the new cat.
So, obviously, the answer was TWO GIANT CATS.
Enter Gracie & Wolfie
Gracie and Wolfie arrived as a sibling pair. They were extremely close, enjoying long walks through the living room, sunsets by the window, grooming sessions, and long naps together.
And best of all, Shaggy liked them. Gracie and Wolfie taught Shaggy something we had been unsuccessfully trying to teach him for years: Rusty wasn’t going to eat him. Shaggy watched these two giant, fluffy lunatics walk right past Rusty and somehow continue living.
Apparently, this was interesting new information.
Slowly, Shaggy started coming out again. He still operated on what can best be described as a calculated cloak-and-dagger schedule, moving strategically from under the furniture to the top of a table while keeping tabs on Rusty’s location. The important thing, however, is that he did at least come out, which was progress.
The household had finally reached equilibrium again, so naturally, I decided we needed another cat.
Enter Spocky
About six months later, I happened to come across a Maine Coon kitten from a nearby breeder who had been born with a paw difference. And by “happened to come across,” I mean I was poking around online because somewhere in the back of my mind I had apparently decided our household was still missing one final piece.
The kitten had a condition called split paw, which gives one of his front paws the appearance of a certain famous Vulcan hand gesture. 🖖 Given that my husband is both a Star Trek fan and, by this point, a converted cat enthusiast, there was really only one possible name: Spocky.
He turned out to be the sweetest little guy and, somehow, the perfect final addition to our ever increasing collection of animals. He also became the model for our Vulcano line because when life hands you a cat with a built-in Live Long and Prosper paw, you don’t ignore the branding opportunity.
And That’s How the Cats Got Jobs
So now we have four cats, including three enormous Maine Coons who were essentially bred to be pampered, admired and photographed while their flowing coats blow gently in the breeze of the ceiling fan.
That raises an obvious question: What exactly do you do with four supermodel cats lounging around your house all day?
You put them to work. You photograph them, turn them into illustrations and make them soap-label models because, around here, everybody has to contribute.
Well, almost everybody has to contribute. We’re still working on the dogs’ department.
Alex would probably be thrilled if Lather & Melt launched a dog shampoo because, well, they do sometimes smell.
