When we drove up about 30 dogs living in large runs heralded our arrival in decibels that would have drowned out a jet take off. We had to walk through one enclosure to get to the catteries. Deep in my heart I was convinced that I was about to become Marn Dog Chow, but I survived the canine gauntlet.

The two old farmhouses the runs surrounded had been left as close to homes as possible and almost all of the 120 or so cats that lived inside were allowed to roam free. Each home had large screened in areas for the cats who love the outdoors. La Chaumi�re Pour 4 Pattes offers the best possible life you could have outside a family but it broke my heart all the same, because the need of the cats hit the spousal unit and I like a wave.

I am used to the cold disdain of cats who are utterly secure in their lives. I am used to cats who make it clear that they are only deigning to allow me to pet them because they feel pity for me and know that I need to bask in their reflected glory. It was pretty disconcerting to walk into a room and have a wave of cats race towards me, tails up, begging for attention. I felt as if I had entered an episode of the Twilight Zone.

Where Was The Snubbing?

Choosing was impossibly hard. The spousal unit and I wandered from room to room and every cat we stroked responded with bunting and purring.

I wandered into a bedroom and sat on a bed draped with cats of every shape, fur length, and size. I began petting a very skinny short-haired calico cat with oversized ears and a very pointy chin. I went to pet another cat and Ms. Calico fixed me with a steely gaze and YELLED at me that she had not given me permission to stop petting her.

The word Diva does not begin to cover how much attitude this cat projected. "This one, for sure," I told the spousal unit. Madame Perret told me her name was Tess and she was a year old. Tess? Oh, I'm sorry, but there's no way I was leaving that name. Let another cat carry all the connotations of Hardy's tragic heroine. This cat was all together too ... uh ... prickly to be a Tess.

We wandered around to the second house. The spousal unit picked up a lovely orange cat with golden eyes. We were set to carry him out with us when he reached over and swiped another cat on the head and then squirmed out of the spousal unit's arms. His victim, a small tabby cat who bore a startling resemblance to our cat Lily who died several years ago, fixed the spousal unit with the sort of look last seen on the face of Queen Victoria.

You could almost see the thought bubble over her head with the words "We Are NOT Amused."

Tag, you're it. Mme Perret told me her name was Dolly and she was two. "Hello Dolly," I said. It was the spousal unit's turn to start twitching. There was no way he was going to live in a household with a cat whose name might provoke the horror of me trying to sing "Hello Dolly" on a daily basis in a faux Louis Armstrong voice. More changes would have to be made.

We gladly paid the shelter fee of $65 for each cat, which came to us neutered, with its first set of shots, and wormed. Not only were we getting the cats at a fraction of what it would have cost us to have the same work done by our vet, we knew we were opening up two places for two more homeless cats in a no kill shelter.

Way cool.

The drive home was spent debating the new names we would give our cats. "Mine is Enid," I said.

The spousal unit rolled his eyes. I matched his eye roll and raised him a steeply cocked eyebrow. Don't try bluffing me, Mr. Man. The calico cat is an Enid and that is that. I decided that in the interests of marital harmony I would throw him a bone and told him he was welcome to name the tabby.

There was a silence. "Pooty Poot," he said.

"As in Bush's nickname for Putin?" I said with incredulity.

"Yeah."

Excuse me, this is one of those times when I need to take a calming breath and give my blood pressure a moment to lower. Okay. I feel much, much better. That said, I think we can all agree that there are no words for the horror of this name.

"Tell me you're not serious."

"Pooty Poot is cute," he said. I was beginning to suspect a demonic possession. It would not have surprised me if the spousal unit's head had begun to spin around like an owl's.

He let me stew in this for at least an hour before admitting that the name was a joke. The spousal unit has no idea how close to tragedy he came. Much as I love him, what with almost 29 years of marriage and all, I was seriously considering putting a contract out on him. Pooty Poot. There isn't a jury on the planet that would convict me.

That still left us with the dilemma of what to call the tabby.

Well, the moment she walked in the door, the tabby began organizing her world. Cats have scent glands on their faces and they rub their faces on things to mark them as theirs.

The tabby went over to my sneakers which I had just kicked off. She rubbed her face on them. Hers. The antique cabinet that holds canned goods? Hers. Our freezer? Hers. Ditto the washer and dryer. The doorway that links the porch to the kitchen? She now owns the left side of it. Also annexed were selected bits of our kitchen cupboards, random kitchen chair legs and if memory serves all the legs of our kitchen table.

Enid was gallomping around with the happy abandon of a cat just leaving kittenhood. The tabby was a cat on a mission, a cat bent on organizing order out of chaos. "This cat is like your mother," I said to the spousal unit.

And thus she is, and forever will be, Norma.

According to everything we could find on-line, the best way to introduce new cats is gradually. The old cat has to feel totally loved and secure or territorial wars will erupt.

For the moment we have moved all the accoutrements of Zubby's life upstairs. For a week or so he will live up here, the new kitties downstairs. They can smell each other, but not see each other. Zubby is not supposed to see us show them any affection until he is used to the idea they're around but that We Still Love Him Best. It's been recommended that we feed the new gang on one side of a door, Zubby on the other so they can all begin to associate each other's scents with good things.

Zubby was in the house mere seconds when he picked up the odour of the new cats and raced down the stairs to confront them. There has been some trash talking through the door between Zubby and the newcomers, but so far it hasn't gone beyond a few "yo momma's". Enid and Norma are somewhat ambivalent about each other, as well, but a bit too discombobulated by the change in scenery to do anything about it. I am hoping a gang war can be avoided.

Tonight while changing the sheets I had a bunch of pillows from our bed piled on the sofa. There was a dark patch between them and without thinking I bent down to pet it, assuming it was Zoe. My fingers brushed fabric and I realized it was just a shadow.

Seems that one of the prices of aging is that I'm accumulating more and more shadows to flit through my heart.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 373.18 miles (600.6 kilometers)
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers