SEVEN YEARS IN LOGGED MEMORIES

There is something very special in old log houses and the memories held within. One of my favorite and most beautiful little cats ... and I must confess I have had a couple of hundred over the years because of the farm, kittens and folks wanting them ... was Housekitty. She was only the second house cat that I ever had after Nicky (NicNick) and before Mink.

My vet once told me, when we realized we were losing her, that she was absolutely the most beautiful cat he had ever seen in all his years of practice. And, she had been a tiny, unwanted baby someone dumped off on me. My introduction to Housekitty was in the middle of the night where she had climbed in an open window (I was to pick up a new window the next day) in early May during a warm spell.

I came awake during the night, deep under covers in a queen-size bed, to feel some "fur" at my feet. I was afraid to move, fearing it was some wild animal like a possum, weasel, skunk or raccoon that had come in for a warm night under the covers. My mind just didn't think in terms of "cat" or "kitten" even though we had them. None of our farm felines wanted to be indoors. Also, I was very allergic to cats, so having one indoors was foreign to me.

I had only managed having Nicky inside an apartment with me before I married because she was a clean fiend I often had to lock out of my bath to keep her out of the big clawfoot tub with me. I didn't deal with allergens with her on that account. My mother had taken her when I married because I lived in a highrise, and Nicky had no fear in jumping from heights. So I was afraid she might misjudge after I moved from a second floor apartment to one ten floors and more up if you count the garages below.

Well, I was getting used to being way out in the country again in an antique log house that had been built before the Civil War. This was the reason for having new windows built as we moved in and remodeled. It was just too hot to leave the old window closed, and it had no screen. One night couldn't have been too bad to leave it open since it was still a bit early for mosquitos and others buzzing pests. But, that one night was enough for a tiny kitty.

I finally got up the courage to move. There was a bit of moonlight, but the indoor light was across the room since I hadn't unpacked our bedside tables and lamps, or set up lines to easily reach the other lights in the 20' x 20' tongue-n-groove room. I don't go to bed until I am really tired, and that night was no exception, so no telling how long I had slept with this furball at my feet since I do sleep soundly.

Finally I moved, teeth gritted and fearful of a gnashing, and the fur didn't. My husband was sleeping quietly, but I slipped out of bed and yanked the covers as hard as I could to expose the critter once I had a club in hand. What I got at that point were two wild-eyed critters! One was my husband, and the other was this tiny, very beautiful long-haired calico kitten with a remarkably beautiful face. She didn't bolt, just cowered pitifully.

My husband loved cats at that point, but wasn't fond of them when he first met me. Actually, he had joked (I hope) that they were only "good on toast" -- ewwwww. The first two kittens we had were caught in a safety trap on another farm before a bobcat caught their mother and three other kittens. These first two kittens were so feral that my husband soon loved them dearly.

This tiny little bundle just cowered until he picked her up and went to warm some milk. My heart was still up in my throat. I didn't have to say a word because he saw where she was huddled and knew where I had been sleeping. I always valued his common sense, and missed some of it very much after his head injury. This kitten was too tiny to put outside. I was afraid he would step on her as he had done another kitten at one time. Something that just made him feel awful for weeks.

So I had to get a large box she couldn't scale out of at the time, or until we had better weather. OUTSIDE for her wouldn't do, however, we came to find out soon. Frustration was growing with all I had to do. Worse, my husband called her Lila. And, I just wasn't happy about that since I remembered that "Lila" had been his first unrequited love. A stewardess in Hawaii who loved the mainland more than him. I was ready to put Lila outside just so I didn't have to hear that name so often.

Jealousy wasn't a part of me, but I sure didn't name my pets after old flames. He named the next kitten "Angie" after the black radical Angela Davis since that kitten would get all huffed-up and look like a little afro-haircut when riled. I referred to "Lila" as the "house kitten" when he inquired about her. And house kitten was something she was determined to be.

I'd put her out on the porch and she'd work hours in trying to get back inside the house, which was essentially a log fortress. Then she found a way! A week