The cat lady trapped me and brought me here to Cat House, and for while I was still wild and flighty.
She fed us, and paid our bills, but no human lived at Cat House. It was already full – four or five cats per room, depending on who got along and who staked out what furniture. Which, as you can imagine, was shredded.
The woman ran Cat House in her spare time when she wasn’t making house payments for homeless cats, so they could live in a real neighborhood, with real neighbors and try to assume a so-called real life. While we all waited around for a house of our very own.
Don’t all cats have human servants to buy their homes and pay their bills?
But back to Elvis.
He was handsome. And bold. Fearless. What self-respecting dog walks into a house of 25 cats – willingly?
He did. He didn’t turn and run away. He didn’t even look scared. Like a normal dog. He looked kind of stoned, really. And he just hauled that lug of a bod up that little tiny step, and made it look like some Gorge cliff climbing scene that was nearly impossible, what with short legs and gut and all, up onto the living room floor of Cat House, and dumping it all back down, with neck flaps and skankles and a sling of basset hound slobber flung with a sigh. It was spectacular! And tiring! It was SO manly. So hot (for a dog, of all things)!
I heard that Elvis lived with a cat before me – Kihei, back at Dog Beach in San Diego. It took that cat 13 seconds to pick out her new human at her California cattery.
It took Elvis about the same amount of time, or maybe less, here at Oregon Cat House. He walked in. Our eyes met. The house of 25 cats shrank to one. Guess who?
24 cats dematerialized.
Elvis presented himself. I picked him up and he took me home.
