When you have eight cats
Sometimes you lose track and think you have seven or nine.
Head counts are impossible. You never know if you’ve left one on the porch or if one has slipped out the back door. “Herding cats” takes on a new meaning.
When you have eight cats
You learn to look before you step.
You were in the bathroom alone brushing your teeth, but somehow there’s now a cat behind your ankles, bread loaf style, settled in as if he’s always been there. You were in the kitchen alone chopping vegetables, but somehow there’s now a cat twining between your legs as you try to move to the sink. You were on the staircase alone carrying groceries, but somehow there’s now a cat reaching up to peek inside the bag.
When you have eight cats
You are always needed for something.
A shoulder to look outside. A lap to sleep on. A ribbon to pull.
A can to open. A fall to catch.
When you have eight cats
Your space becomes their space.
That island you bought to expand your meager kitchen counter? It belongs to Frances now. She has her little milk dish there, and not one but two cozy beds so that she never has to share. You’re still preparing meals at a cutting board sized corner by the microwave. That dining room table where you used to eat your meals? Totally conscripted by cat. Two bowls for dry food. Three plates for canned food. You’re relegated to a little TV tray in the living room.
When you have eight cats
You’re never cold at night.
They curl into C’s and O’s; they combine bodies to form S’s and E’s. They nudge the covers until you wake up enough to let them in. They drape themselves over your neck, your chest, your feet. You fall asleep to the light vibration of purrs.
the dirigible plum 
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