Monica Ackerman

Whenever Chelsea, the gorgeous two year old glossy black Princess, puts her front paw on Mom's knee, opens her pretty pink mouth, looks up with her bright yellow eyes and slowly says Me, that means only one thing: I'm here. I have arrived, I'm ready to be petted, admired, spoiled and loved. Forget the lowly Tabby cat groveling at your ankles, ignore the tubby Tiger cat trying to push me aside, this is about ME, the main event. She will not be deterred. She energetically demands my undivided attention, affection, pats on the rump, scratches on the base of her tail which send her into ecstasy and endless purrs of contentment. Woe to the male intruder, be it the older and slower senior citizen who just stops by to see what all the commotion is about, or the young and rambunctious baby brother who wants in on the action, no one gets to interrupt the queen when she is involved in her ritual. She shoves them and pushes them aside with such arrogance that they never even question her.

Charlie, the baby Tiger, will often initiate a chase or a game and sometimes she will take him up on it and actually entice him into a grooming session of her own. She will throw herself on the floor and he is so accommodating that he will actually begin to lick her ears and face and even her tummy. Maxx, the sly and wiser one will take that opportunity to sneak around the two of them to seek quiet spot for an undisturbed nap.

Chelsea was adopted to be Maxx's companion to brighten his lonely days when Mom became a grandmother. She was a shelter cat who lived in a foster home and had been adopted at 8 weeks but returned 4 weeks later to the foster home because she supposedly was unable to get along with the resident cat in the new home. I had a hard time believing that story.

First, Chelsea grew up in the foster home with her litter mates (Chuckie, Cheddar, and Chester) and four or five resident and foster cats of various ages and breeds. And secondly, it took her all of two days to get used to Maxximus, my resident grouch, who was and is extremely antisocial and very difficult to get along with by humans and animals alike; so I'm not sure what that lady's story really was. Chelsea tried hissing at Maxx for half a day and when that did not achieve the desired result; she tried throwing herself at his feet, legs up in the air. That did nothing for him, either. He just stepped over her and continued to ignore her, all the while shooting dirty looks at me over his shoulder as if to say "who is this intruder, Mom, and what are you going to do about it?" Eventually he reluctantly resigned himself to her presence but she never really became a beloved little sister especially since she quickly outgrew him in size and wit, and definitely in speed and agility.

Eventually, the household gained a stray tabby, to be named Charlie, who came to us at the age of approximately eight weeks and has established himself as the Alpha male. But, Chelsea has remained the Princess. She is incredibly beautiful and the purebred Burmese whose pictures I saw in the Cat Fancy magazine have nothing on her. I even went to a local cat show to check out the purebreds and yes, they are gorgeous and proud and I loved the way they allow themselves to be groomed and shown to an adoring audience. But, they don't look all that different from my Princess. When I asked what the breed of my shelter cat really was, I was told simply American Shorthair.

When the foster mom, who also happens to be a friend, first brought Chelsea over for a trial visit, I had never seen a black cat close up before. I had wanted a kitten and all she had was a black one. I suppose I had all the preconceived notions most people have. A black cat is bad luck. You see them on Halloween pictures with arched backs and green glowing eyes, sometimes emitting sparks and extended claws, riding on witches' backs or broom sticks; never a good sign. There are furry figures of them on Halloween displays emitting screeching sounds to frighten little children. Animal shelters never allow adoptions of black cats around Halloween to discourage mistreatment of black cats. There are tales of the devil appearing in the form of a black cat in the Middle Ages, all sorts of horrible tales from long ago.

And then, there was Chelsea. Soft and shiny and quietly purring as she shyly put one little paw out of the carrier and looked around curiously, glancing at Maxx and me sitting on the floor. He was stunned. He had never been in the presence of another furry object like this before. What's a cat? He was an indoor cat who had been hand-raised and bottle fed by my, then boyfriend and me. Suddenly, she left the carrier with a single bound, settled in my lap, and hissed at Maxx. That night she slept on my bed and put her paw in my hand. We slept like that, holding hands all night. Of course, she never left.

Last year a friend of mine, twenty years younger than me, suddenly died in her sleep of a brain embolism. Next day, in a panic I called my daughter to instruct her what to do with my cats. "Maxximus, has to go to Jeff (my then boyfriend who helped me raise him), Charlie the stray has to go to Marc (my son who has two cats and cannot refuse since I took in his outdoor cat when she needed a home) and Chelsea has to be returned to the foster home or the shelter, because I signed a contract." She agreed. And then, I emailed all my cat and pet owner friends and reminded them to make arrangements for their pets so when they leave this planet their animals are taken care of. But first, I called my ex-boyfriend and my son and advised them of their good luck. They agreed and hoped that I would be around for a really long time.

Monica Ackerman lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her cats. She's written several stories chronicling her journey from cat hater to champion of ferals and shelter animals. She is collecting cat stories for an anthology. Any profit from sales of the book will go to the ASPCA. Please submit your story to The Book