Wacky

	Name:	Kerouac		Birthdate:	2/?/89 (approximately)
	Full Name:	Jack Kerouac, Jr.		Nicknames:	Wacky, Wackster, Mookie, Murmur, Pooter
	Favorite toy:	Buddy (his Catdancer)

My sweet boy. He's grumpy, bossy, demanding, the little king. Full of confidence; he wins over everyone who meets him. He's lived in New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Arizona, and California; flown cross-country; loves drives; and is fearless.

He adopted me at a shelter in Nashua. When I stopped in front of his crate, he sat up like he was posing for a picture. Big orange and white shorthaired tabby. Big. With huge orange eyes. The shelter worker told me his story, he had been abandoned very young, found in an apartment in Lowell. They had had him almost all his life, now 4 months, he was their favorite. But noone wanted a cat that big, they wanted little ones. She must have seen me coming. So did he - when she opened the door, he reached out and patted my arm. And when I picked him up, he put his paws around my neck. "This is my cat," I said.

When he was young, he was a firecracker. Loved to launch himself off the fridge, curtain rods, furniture. His favorite prank: Quickly hooking his paw on the lip of a glass of water and tipping it into someone's lap, then taking off, never getting a hair wet or breaking the glass; he can still do this from any angle. He was outrageous, digging in the flower pots and turning plants over, chasing pantyhose up my legs as I tried to put them on. He was wild, could fit my whole wrist in his mouth as he'd attempt to disembowel my arm. I didn't name him Wacky; this was courtesy of a friend whose curtains and slipcovers were shredded when she watched him one week. All my friends thought I was insane to keep him. But he carried his Buddy in his mouth, to the food bowl, the litterbox, up on the bed. When I held him like a baby and rubbed his cheek, he'd pat my face with soft paws. He was endlessly curious, wanted to be where people were, see what we were doing, join in.

He started having grand mal seizures in 1992. It's an understatement to say it was awful. I'd take him in the bathtub afterwards and wash him, try to comfort him as he fussed ("Moaaarrrr..."). Like clockwork, every week, sometimes twice a week for almost a year. After several negative and inconclusive tests, the seizures passed on their own as suddenly as they came on. And he's been absolutely wonderful ever since. A big (well, huge - the vet here in CA thought he may have acromegaly), long, 18 pound cookie. Maybe I proved to him I could be a good mommy.

Wacky was diagnosed with diabetes in 2000. I took it very hard; I hate to think of a time without him, we've been together so long. Meanwhile, he put up with my early fumblings with the syringes, and lets me know it's time for his insulin by giving me grumpy looks, chastizing me ("Mowrrr-OWRRPP"), and leading me into the kitchen. When he's feeling good and frisky, he knocks things off the dresser in the morning, and if he's really lucky and I've forgotten a glass of water on the nightstand...!

Bob is his toy.

Baa

	Name:	BBOB (pronounced buh-Bob)		Birthdate:	?/?/99
	Full Name:	Beautiful Boy with One Ball		Nicknames:	Baa-Baa, Silly Bob, Crackhead Bob, Slutty Kitty, Handsome Bob
	Favorite toy:	Carpet Mouse (torn from inside his Cosmic Catnip Alpine Scratcher)

My little boy. He found me one day as I was out feeding Darwin, Buttercup, and the babies (at that time Sparky, Spike, and Speedy). Bob came up on the back porch with them, limping; so skinny and hungry. Yet he was so docile and sweet, I couldn't help scratching his head and telling him how handsome he was. For Darwin and Buttercup to let him hang around, I figured he was either their brother or the babies' father, or was so much not a threat that they couldn't be bothered scaring him off. I knew he was a boy because, well, it was obvious. He was gorgeous: Black, brown, and cream, with a pink nose outlined in black, swirls and stripes on top, and spots on his tummy.

He let me take a look at his rear end the next day; he had a terrible, oozing wound and one testicle was missing. I was horrified, stunned; I went into the house and cried; I called my vet for advice:

"What should I do?"
"You can try to clean the wound, and put some antibiotic ointment on it."
"It looks too bad for that."
"Well, if you can catch him and bring him in, we'll have a standing appointment for you."
"I'll see what I can do."
"What's his name?"
"Name?" (pause) "Bob, whatever, call him Bob. I'm not keeping him."

Little did I know.

I caught him in a carrier (what I know now...that shows what a cupcake he is); he thrashed for about a 1/2 hour, and cried in the car for the entire 20 minute drive, calming down just as we pulled into the parking lot. When I told them I had a feral cat, they rushed me into an exam room and loaded it up with the doctor and three vet techs. I opened the carrier door and he walked out onto the table. "Errrrrmf?" The doctor laughed and scratched Bob's head. Broken teeth, rotten teeth; no earmites (yea!), no fleas (yea!); a very bad bite wound on his behind, with a very deep abscess. "He's been altered." (Well, not the daddy.) They examined him head to toe, took his temperature, took blood; he purred through the whole thing. When they told me he was FIV positive, I knew he'd probably never find another home. To fix him would cost $500 bucks, but he had been a pet and had been abandoned, and he needed someone. "If I put that much money into his butt, he's mine whether he likes it or not," I said.

Bob's a big chicken: It took him a few weeks to stop hissing at Wacky (who didn't know what the fuss was about and found it amusing,) and the coffee grinder, and running water from the squeaky taps, and he still freaks out at the vacuum cleaner. Bob's a cupcake: He takes meds like a dream, and purrs all the while. He's a slut: If he likes you and you're sitting still, he'll climb up and lay on your chest, almost nose to nose, making a very loud, wet, constant purr. If you move him, he comes back - how could you not want him on top of you? Bob's got addiction problems: he's a Kitten Chow junkie, he'll do anything for some, including tearing open the bag. He's got a catnip problem, he once ate half a bag full, plastic and all. And he can unzip (not tear, unzip) treat packages, getting out one at a time with his paw.

He's Wacky's pal, cohort, and partner in crime. Folks were worried about my having these two males, one with an infectious disease and the other one elderly and set in his ways, how they would get along. But Wacky is playful like he hasn't been in years, and Bob, now that he knows Wacky won't take a piece out of him, is blissful. Bob, now a big, healthy 14 pounder, and the Wackster romp like kittens, wrestle, and gang up on me at bed- and mealtimes.

Bob has great patience with Mojo, the baby cat.

Mojo

	Name:	Mojo		Birthdate:	9/5/01 (approximately)
	Full Name:	Mojo Jojo		Nicknames:	Momo, Moj, Moji, Mojinator, Booble, Monkey
	Favorite toy:	Toss up: Wacky Cats Great Balls of FurTM and catnip mice

I can't believe he's mine; I'm so in love! Anyone who knows me knows I love cats of all ages. And don't get me started on the need for cat population control and responsible cat ownership. Back in 2001 I believed I only had enough time, money, love, and patience for one cat, my Wackster. Then Bob needed a good mommy. I'd shared with my neighbor fostering duties for Darwin's 6 kids, had fostered Buttercup's last 5 all by myself, and was completely weaned from any overwhelming, ridiculous, oversentimental feelings regarding baby cats.

But Mojo... he had such an old, serious soul. He was the first to be named, and it was obvious what his name would be. While the others ran, jumped, climbed, fought all over themselves and me; Mojo would find a solitary spot where he could watch the precedings. He'd come to me when he wanted to settle off to sleep; he'd lay on my chest, wash my chin and nose.

He wasn't flashy like Bunny (his long-haired twin) or Lumpy; he wasn't striped with those lovely gray lined eyes like Tiny and Butchie. My fear was that since he wasn't a stunning beauty, he'd be the last to be adopted, if at all.

Sean at Pets In Need had asked me how many could I part with? I hadn't thought about keeping even one until he said that. Then I started thinking, and yes, crying, about how much I'd miss Tiny Boo and Moj. About an hour before I was to leave them, I let Tiny out into the house by himself: he was hesitant at first, then ran for Wacky to jump on him. Not good, not good at all. I then let Moji out: he walked slowly around Wacky, touched noses, then rubbed up against his head. Wacky grunted his approval ("Rrrmmmmph"). That did it; the Mojinator was mine.

Moji's smart; he loves computers, following the cursor and trying to catch it. He watches tv, and loves sports; his favorite show so far is NFL Prime Time, and he sits right in front of the tv when he hears Chris Berman's voice. He's brave, standing up to Wacky and batting his tail when the old man turns away (which scares me, but thank goodness, Wackster tolerates the young'un.) And in his down-time, he's constantly wrestling with, washing, sleeping with, or chewing on Bob. Moji plays fetch with catnip mice, his favorite game, brings them right back to you. Instead of rubbing up against things and people sideways, he prefers the headbutt as a sign of affection (I've found out that this is a signature of all his littermates.) And he's great in the car, will let strangers hold him, and has a purr like a motorboat.