Stephanie: Stephanie came to live with me on December 6, 2024. In spite of being late getting to bed that night, I’d decided to take out some trash. When I got to the trash can, I heard a cat meowing, so of course, I called. A small, black and white face peeked around the corner of the garage, then came running to me. She was about six months old then, and I knew she’d been dumped because she didn’t have thick winter fur (obviously, she’d lived in a heated house), was well-socialized (ran right up to a total stranger), and the woods behind my garage are a popular cat-dumping spot. I picked her up and put her inside my fuzzy robe because it was a windy 19F that night and I knew she was cold. I knew I couldn’t put her in the Cat Cave with The Herd because they are an established colony of adults, varying from feeder-friendly to feral, and would not have appreciated a small interloper, so I did the only thing I could…I brought her in the house. I named her Stephanie because there are two tuxedo boys in The Herd, both named Steve. She’s a girl, so…Stephanie. Her full given name is Stephanie Marsupilami Babycat, but I also call her The Insane Oreo Gremlin because…because I know her! LOL As I write this in January 2026, she is about a year and a half old. She still lives in the house, though there have been times when she first arrived that I almost regretted the decision to bring her in here. I believe she was raised alone from a very young age because she didn’t seem to know how to cat, she was very needy when I was home, and extremely destructive when I wasn’t. In her first month here, she did about $1000 worth of damage; she tore up the curtains on three big windows (I replaced them with DIY ESPHome smart blinds because of course I did), she broke plant pots, dug up and killed expensive plants, tore the dust protector off the bottom of the box spring of the bed, and a few other things that I can’t recall at the moment. I was almost at my wit’s end, but finally realized that she was VERY smart, and not a bad cat, but rather a bored cat. When I wasn’t here to play with her, she found her own entertainment in the destruction of my house. She needed a cat friend; enter Beans (see below). Stephanie is a mask-and-mantle tuxedo cat, so the effect is not that of a cat in full formal wear; Stephanie looks as if she’s lost her jacket, unbuttoned her vest, and is wearing shorts instead of pants, and that suits her personality to a tee! She is highly intelligent, curious, high-energy, and playful. If she’s not asleep, she’s always busy doing something, and sometimes, her intelligence and curiosity gets her into trouble. Stephanie collects smells, and loves to get new ones. Anything that comes into the house must be sniffed and added to her collection. Even if it’s food, she doesn’t eat it or even lick it; she just wants the smell. She will eat canned food, but isn’t really food-motivated, and mostly leaves the canned stuff for Beans, preferring her kitty crunchies instead. She has her own chair in the front room; a ratty old recliner that used to belong to Patrick (my late husband). I’d considered throwing it away because it was just an inexpensive one that I’d purchased years ago for him to sit on when he was smoking in the garage with his collection of Pat’s Cats (now all deceased of old age or cancer), but I’d brought it in the house, and Stephanie chose it as a favourite observation post, so instead, I bought a cover for it so it didn’t look so bad, and gave it to her. She also likes to play in the small ensuite bathroom that used to be Patrick’s. I don’t put anything but empty toilet paper rolls in that bathroom’s trash so that she can tip it over and play with them, and she knows the only thing she isn’t allowed to do is damage the shower curtain. I call that room “Stephanie’s bathroom” and rarely use it myself. Stephanie regularly gets Crazy Eyes (dilated pupils) and runs around the house like a wild thing, often chasing Beans, or being chased by Beans. She also has an online persona on Bluesky; there, she is sTuffin, and writes in the somewhat haphazardly-spelled, questionable grammar style of a bright six-year-old child, filtered through the knowledge and experiences of a cat. She has an online friend there called “Ant Ka’ra” (Aunt Ka’ra), and people on Bluesky like to read their interactions.
Beans: Beans came to live here in January of 2025; she lives in the house with Stephanie and me. She is a classic grey tabby with medium-length hair, very soft. Beans is the only cat I’ve ever officially adopted in my life; normally, cats just show up like, “So I live here now. What have you got to eat?” but with Stephanie being a holy terror, destroying my house every day I had to work and she was alone, she needed a cat friend ASAP. I looked on the shelter’s web site for a cat close to Stephanie’s age (able to keep up with The Insane Oreo Gremlin). Initially, I saw a beautiful tortoiseshell that was listed as being very sweet and friendly, and good with other cats, and thought, “Oh, that’s my cat!” but something made me scroll down. There I saw the WORST “please adopt me” picture I’d ever seen in my life. Clearly, the shelter had done their best—a pretty red background and a curl of decorative ribbon placed in front of her—but Beans (shelter name Juniper, which I hated because juniper smells like cat piss) was having none of it. She was scrunched down as far back as she could get, and the expression on her face plainly said, “Fuck off. I hate everything, especially you.” She was listed as good with other cats, but did not meow, and did hiss. The only thing the shelter knew about her background was that she’d come from the pound in a nearby town; the constant barking of the dogs freaked her out, and nobody wanted to reach into her cage to tend to her because she hissed, swatted, and bit. They thought she’d do better at a cats-only shelter like Little Paws, and they were right. She still hissed and sometimes swatted, but she was much more calm. Having looked after more than my share of feral cats, I know that a hissy cat isn’t a bad cat, or a mean cat; it’s a frightened cat. Beans didn’t have a good chance of adoption; common tabby backed into the corner of her cage, doesn’t meow but does hiss, a face like she wants to kill you. Three strikes. Not for me, though! I saw her and thought, “THAT is my cat!” The beautiful, friendly tortoiseshell would easily find a home. Beans would not. I paid her adoption fee, and brought her home. I’d intended to put her in a large dog crate for at least a couple of weeks so she could decompress and get used to her new surroundings, but as soon as I got in the door and set the carrier down, I heard it…a small meow. It wasn’t Stephanie because while she rarely meows, hers is distinctive; tiny and squeaky, like an asthmatic mouse. This one had come from Beans, who apparently did meow after all! On a hunch, I took the carrier over and put it beside me on the couch, then slowly unzipped it, and put my hand on the couch beside the opening. Beans sniffed my hand, but didn’t do anything. I held out my hand, let her sniff again, and she let me gently pet her cheeks. Then, I just turned on the TV and ignored her. After a few minutes, she warily emerged from the carrier. I didn’t move or even look at her. She went into the bedroom (it’s right off the living room), presumably under the bed. I ignored her. A few hours later, as I was getting kitty supper ready, she cautiously peeked around the corner into the kitchen. I just kept doing what I was doing, and ignored her until I set her bowl in front of her. She ate like she’d grown up in prison (still does), then wandered off somewhere. I left her to do as she pleased. Stephanie and Beans have a Litter-Robot 4 (named Henry Norris for Henry VIII’s Groom of the Stool), and while Stephanie learned to use it right away and was never afraid of it because she fears virtually nothing except the upright vacuum, Beans had never even seen one before, so beside the robot, I set up a litter box exactly like she’d had at the shelter, right down to the trash bag liner and pine pellet litter (they’d given me some to take home). She never so much as walked in it; she knew what the Litter-Robot was for, and that’s what she used right from “go”. The best thing to do with a nervous cat is to completely ignore them and let them explore their surroundings at their own pace, so that’s exactly what I did. As she got a little more comfortable, she’d sit and watch me play with Stephanie (wand toy), and eventually, she joined in. Stephanie, not knowing how to cat, was very rough at play, and Beans didn’t like it. She’d try to run away, but if Stephanie chased her and cornered her, she’d hiss and swat…and I did absolutely nothing. That is exactly what Stephanie’s cat mum and siblings would have done if Stephanie had been raised with them, so that’s exactly what Beans needed to do to teach Stephanie boundaries and cat language. If Stephanie wanted to play with Beans, she’d have to learn how to behave, or she’d get swatted. It didn’t take long for Stephanie to figure that out, and then she and Beans became friends. Beans is still a little skittish, but she keeps getting better, and not only does she meow, she never shuts up! She has a scratcher box right in my path in the front room, and she likes to lie in wait for me to come by so she can get pets. If I open the door and come in the house, Beans will be there, and she wants pets. She has a little routine that she likes; she’ll let me pet her once in the front room, then she walks to the kitchen (her favourite place to get pets), and I follow her. She lets me pet her a few times, sometimes making me reach like she thinks I have orangutan arms, and finally, she flops over on her side for more involved pets. She’s not a lap cat, but she does like to sleep beside me on the bed, up against my hip, and sleep beside me on the couch in her favourite spot at the end. She’s a sweet cat; not as bright as Stephanie (few cats are!), but not stupid, either, and every time I see her do something like jump up on the little table I have by the bedroom window so they can see outside, or chew on the parlour palm in Stephanie’s bathroom, I’m happy because I know it means she understands that this is her home, and the things here are for her. The plant actually is hers; it looks like shit (just “failure to thrive”…I’m good with plants, but it happens), but rather than throw it out, I left it there and keep it watered so Beans can go in and chew on it if she likes. It’s non-toxic, so it won’t hurt her. Beans is four months older than Stephanie, making her almost two years old in January 2026.
Miki: Miki is the founding member of The Herd. One very cold day in January of 2024, I went out to the garage, and on the patio, in the small bed that the last of Patrick’s “Pat’s Cats” had used during the summer, I saw a very small dilute tortoiseshell cat, curled into a tight ball. I’d seen her a couple of times the summer before; down in the woods near the creek, but she’d run when I’d say, “Hi Miss Kitty!” so I assumed she was someone’s indoor-outdoor cat. This day, I knew she wasn’t; she was cold and probably hungry. I didn’t know then, but she was newly pregnant, and that’s why this fiercely independent, self-reliant, and very intelligent cat had come looking for help. My plan had been to be cat-free for a while after the last of Pat’s Cats was gone (they all died of old age), but I know that once you feed a cat, you have a cat. Still, I couldn’t leave her; she was so small, and it was cold, and she’d come to me. I fed her, of course, so…I had a cat. I gave her a VERY well-insulated shelter I’d built many years before for Old Kitty (one of Pat’s Cats), and fed her on the patio every day. My intent was to socialize her, bring her inside, and live happily ever after with one little splotchy grey and beige kitty. I named her Miki for the name I’d called her the summer before: Mi(ss) Ki(tty). Miki, however, had other plans. She would let me pet her a little if she was eating, but otherwise, no. I knew I had to get her to the vet to be spayed and vaccinated, and the only way that was going to happen would be to trap her…so that’s what I did. She was NOT impressed, but it had to be done, and when they spayed her, they told me she was in the early stages of pregnancy (I’d already okayed a spay/abort), and about a year old (making her about three years old in January 2026). As soon as I released her from the trap, she took off, and I didn’t see her for two days. She came back, though, and things continued on as they had before. Then, I discovered that the tabby and white cat I’d seen with her the summer before was her friend (hold on…Andy’s coming). At around 8 pounds, Miki is the smallest of all of my cats, even Stephanie and Beans, but she takes ZERO shit from anyone. She’ll smack 15-pound Backpack across the face without hesitation if he gets out of line, and won’t think a thing of it. The boys all respect her authority; the tortoiseshell may be dilute, but the tortitude is full-strength! Miki is the only one of The Herd who does not have a chip. She was the first one I caught, but my cat door is a Sureflap DualScan, made in the UK, and because the US has a reputation of doing things its own way whether it makes sense or not, I wasn’t sure the chip would be one of the frequencies that the door could read, so I opted to wait. I shouldn’t have, since Miki will NOT allow herself to be caught again. She’s so smart, though, that she’s found a way to get in and out of the Cat Cave. She knows the sound when the door unlocks with one of the boys’ chips, and she’ll either tailgate one of the boys, or, if they’re going separate directions, she’ll wait until she hears the lock, then shove the boy out of the way and go through the door herself. Miki is very resourceful! She also has a weird little habit. She’ll climb a big osage-orange tree behind the garage, and get up onto the roof. Then, she’ll start meowing, which alerts the rest of The Herd, so they start milling around the patio, meowing. Miki is perfectly capable of getting down, but what she wants is for me to walk to the back of the garage, and stand there, telling her she can do it. I have NO idea why she does this; she’s not a human-social cat at all, and other than providing convenient food and shelter for her, I’d doubt she gives a damn about me at all. For whatever reason, though, I have to be her cheering section to get down off the garage roof. Cat logic.
The Steves: One winter a year or so before The Steves showed up, I’d seen a tuxedo cat on one of my outdoor security cameras, looking through the window to the living room (window is floor to ceiling). It was cold and snowy, and I felt kind of bad because the cat was outside in the cold looking in at the warm living room like The Little Match Girl, but figured it was someone’s indoor-outdoor cat. I never saw the cat on the cameras again. Then, in February of 2024, I started seeing a tuxedo cat…or what I thought was A tuxedo cat, that looked the same as the one I’d seen a year earlier. By that time, I already had Miki, so I figured “in for a penny, in for a pound” and fed the tuxedo. It took a couple of weeks for me to notice, but eventually, I thought, “Hang on…he didn’t have that white mark by his tail yesterday,” and then I realized it; I wasn’t feeding one tuxedo cat, I was feeding two! One would eat while the other stood guard, and then they’d switch. Eventually, they got well enough accustomed to my presence that they’d eat together, and I discovered that they were a bonded pair, almost certainly brothers. When I thought I was feeding one, I’d named him Steve because he looked like a Steve. I started calling them Steve I and Steve II. They were about two years old when they arrived, so they’re about three years old as of January 2026.
Steve I became Stevie Cookie because in the spring of 2024, I was trying to teach him his name. He loves Temptations (kitty cookies), so I’d toss one to him and say, “Stevie! Cookie?” The Stevie part went whizzing right over his head, but he absolutely understood “cookie”, so I decided that was as good a name as any, and Stevie Cookie he became. It didn’t take long to figure out that Cookie wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, and after a little while, I realized that he’s not just “kind of dumb”, he’s probably the stupidest, least-aware animal that has ever walked the planet, and I include domestic turkeys in that description. He’s sweet, and he loves all other cats, and food, but he exists in a kind of permanent fog. He has no clue what’s going on, ever, and even now, in January 2026, almost two years after he arrived, he might not necessarily know that I’m feeding him until I put his bowl right in front of his face. He knows exactly three things: Food, love other kitties, and go into the Cat Cave through the RFID cat door. He used to know how to go out the door, but not in, and the day he figured out how to go in, he forgot he used to know how to go out. He’s a 640K RAM kind of guy. It wasn’t hard to figure out that his brother is the brains of the outfit, and Stevie Cookie just follows along, doing what he’s told to do. Stevie Cookie is sort of chonky; he won’t eat canned food if he has to chew it (his teeth are fine), so I have to get extra gravy food and make it into a kind of slurry for him, but he certainly loves his kitty crunchies, and the sound of crunchies hitting the stainless steel and ceramic bowls will bring him running every time if he’s within earshot.
Steve II became Big Steve, not because he’s bigger than Cookie (he’s not…they’re the same size other than the fact that Cookie is chonkier), but because he’s obviously the “big brother”. He looks out for Cookie and I’m sure that’s the only way that poor Cookie is still alive. Big Steve does not like me. Big Steve does not trust me. Big Steve does not like any humans. Big Steve is determined to remain as feral as he possibly can while still accepting food from me, and living in the warm, safe Cat Cave with food, water, and cat bathrooms so he doesn’t have to go do his cat business outside in bad weather. He doesn’t like it when I go in there, and he’s happy when I leave. I’m perfectly fine with this; he can think I’m Satan if he wants, just as long as he’s fed, warm, and safe. He has an intense Stanley Kubrick stare that I get from him every time I go in the Cat Cave; it’s like he’s thinking, “If I were big and YOU were little…” lol Big Steve, however, looks after Cookie, and most likely has since they were kittens, because otherwise, Cookie would never have made it to adulthood. If it’s not freezing cold or raining, Cookie likes to go sit in the back yard or over on the south side, staring at absolutely nothing for hours. If he’s not in the Cat Cave at bedtime, though, Big Steve will go looking for him. As a rule, Big Steve doesn’t meow (ferals generally don’t), but if he can’t see Cookie, he’ll meow his rusty, cracked meow, calling for him. Eventually, he’ll find him, and Cookie obediently follows Big Steve back to the Cat Cave to go to bed. It’s really adorable; the big, tough feral cat, shepherding his poor, dumb brother to safety every night. The bond between them is still tight, but as they’ve integrated into The Herd, some of the pressure has been taken off Big Steve because the rest of The Herd and I are here to help look after Cookie. I’d imagine that’s something of a relief to Big Steve, though he still makes sure Cookie is safe inside at bedtime.
Andy: Andy is a brown tabby and white boy with a white “saddle” marking on his back, and I don’t think he was truly feral; I think at some point, he had a home, or at least was around people. He came in February of 2024, very shortly after The Steves. He’s always been the friendliest of The Herd, and after he got used to me, I discovered that he loves pets and cheek scritchies. He used to get overstimulated and bite occasionally, but I’d just say, “No bite” and walk away, so that habit stopped pretty quickly. He’s my good boy, and if he had indoor manners (he does not), I think he’d make someone a good house cat. Unfortunately, he’s a master-class climber, and he’d be up on curtains, blinds, or anything he could get to. I’ve got a lattice privacy panel on the patio, and a number of times he’s climbed 8’ up the other side just so he could peek up over the top at me. He climbs trees, shrubs…anything “up”. That wouldn’t work in a house…if he got adopted, I’m sure he’d be a boomerang the first time he ruined someone’s curtains or blinds. I don’t want that for him. He’s not a cat genius, but he’s smart, and he’s perfectly content to be a member of The Herd, living in the Cat Cave. I’m perfectly content to have him here. I like to sing a little song when I pet him; “Andy pandy bo-bandy, banana-fana fo fandy. Fee-fi-fo mandy…Andy!” He understand it’s his song, too!
Backpack: Backpack arrived in…early March of 2024, though it might have been late February. He is grey tabby and white, and that’s why he’s here, actually. I wasn’t really familiar with Andy because he hadn’t been here for too long, so when I saw a tabby and white cat at the edge of the patio, I assumed it was Andy, waiting to be fed…and I fed him. Eventually, I realized, “Wait…that’s not Andy! Andy’s white mark is a a saddle. This one has the mark on his shoulders like a backpack. He’s…Backpack Andy!” By then, though, it was too late; you can’t feed a cat and just stop, so I had another cat. I already had four at that time, so why not five, right? Backpack is an interesting cat; if he’s been hanging out with friendly Andy, I can pet him a little, and he’ll purr. If he’s been hanging out with Big Steve, I’m a kitty axe-murderer, and he’ll run if I so much as look at him. Fickle little bastard. lol The most notable thing about Backpack is that while everyone gained weight the first winter they spent in the Cat Cave because they didn’t have to go more than 15’ to eat, drink, sleep, or take care of bathroom business, Backpack never lost the weight. He’s a fat boy; not morbidly obese, and he can still walk, run, jump, and he will climb if he must. I wish he’d lose a couple of pounds, but I can’t really restrict his food intake since The Herd eat together, and none of Miki, Andy, or Cookie would defend their food bowls (Miki and Andy don’t care, Cookie is too dumb), Backpack would just shove one of them out of the way and eat theirs. So…he’s a chonker, and a lazy one to boot. If he doesn’t have to move…he doesn’t. His litter box habits, though, are hilarious. First of all, he won’t do his cat business outside, ever. He can be on the patio on a beautiful spring day, and he’ll still go into the Cat Cave to use the box. Pee outside like a heathen? Heavens, no! A big eater like he is, he produces copious amounts of the most vile-smelling waste, and even better (ha!) he’s a litter-kicker. I have to use high-sides litter boxes because he gets in there and it’s like he’s doing Riverdance; flinging litter everywhere as if he’s trying to dig to Earth’s core.
George of Orange: George came in late December or early January of 2025. No idea where he came FROM; he just showed up on the back patio one night, and I fed him because it was cold, he looked pitiful, and feeding cats is what I do. Aside from poor, stupid little Cookie, George is the dumbest cat I’ve got; he’s an orange tabby, and definitely a One Orange Brain Cell kind of guy. He’s also sort of an outcast in The Herd because he was the last to arrive, but mostly because he’s TOO friendly. Instead of the usual “we ignore each other, maybe we can be friends” that cats do when they meet, George runs right up on any new cat like, “HI, NEW BEST FRIEND!” and that freaks them out. He never learns, either. Not just cat language; he never learns anything at all. Every day, twice a day, I bring out a tray with The Herd’s bowls of canned food. I back out the door because I’m holding a tray, and every day, George is right in front of the door. He gets bonked (not hard) by the door because I can’t see him with my back turned, but he never seems to figure out that if he moved a foot to the left, he’d still be the first to be in contact with Food Lady, but he wouldn’t get hit by the door. George learns absolutely nothing, ever. He loves Miki. Miki doesn’t love George. George runs up to her, wanting to be friends, and she hisses at him, and sometimes swats him. He backs off, and five minutes later, does the same thing all over again. He has slightly more situational awareness than Cookie, but not a lot. He does at least know when he’s being fed. He doesn’t learn that getting between my feet when I’m walking means that I’m likely to step on him, and he’s an ankle barnacle. If I’m standing up, George is wrapping himself around my ankles. Like Andy, if he had indoor manners, George could make a good house cat, but unfortunately, he still sprays. I’d hoped that neutering him would stop that, but it didn’t; he was about two when he was neutered in March 2025, which is pretty late in life. He’s very friendly and would easily be adopted, I think, but he’d be returned the first time he sprayed cat piss on someone’s dining room wall. Anyway, even if The Herd doesn’t always welcome him in the Cat Cave, he still has a warm place to sleep because I still have the shelter that I originally built for Old Kitty (the most feral of Pat’s Cats); the same one I used for Miki when she first came here. I keep a heated bed inside it, and it’s very well-insulated, so George is never left to sleep rough in the cold. Plus it’s on the patio, so he’s closer to the door-bonk than the rest of them. Lol
That’s everyone, and I certainly hope there won’t be more! Oh, and there’s a reason Andy is named Andy. I went out one night to feed Miki and The Steves, and I called, “Steve! Mik!” Then I thought, “Well now…I’ve got Steve and Mick. All I need now is Andy, and I’ve got the intro to Ballroom Blitz.” So…are you ready Steve? (Uh-huh) Andy? (Yeah) Mick? (Okay) All right fellas, let’s gooooooo! 🙂