While in recently Key West, I HAD to go to visit the Ernest Hemingway house because I knew he was a fellow cat fanatic. I’d always heard about his love (like love, love) of six-toed cats (often referred to as Hemingway cats but properly known as a polydactyl cat).
As soon as I stepped foot into his house, I knew this was a man after my own feline loving heart…quite possibly my soul mate who just happens to be six feet under (ugh, why couldn’t he be alive? He’d only be like 142 or something).
Hemingway received his first six-toed white cat named Snowball from a Captain (um, does this sound like fate to anyone else?!) of a ship and the rest is history.
While the house was gorgeous…
After EH winning me over with the gorgeous house, I was out on the hunt for some of the descendants of Snowball who still rule the roost here. I muscled my way up to the front in each room, ruining every other tourist’s photos and videos because … well, I’m a crazy cat lady. What can I say?
I was in some serious feline euphoria, getting ideas for what I should acquire for my own little furry love.
Teddy was so pissed when he saw that there are actual cat mansions to live in…what kind of diva am I raising?!
Everything was all fur and games and I was feeling warm and fuzzy…
Until this happened…
At first I thought this was the sweetest thing I’d ever seen (further confirming my love of EH). Each sweet kitty soul has their own gravestone on the property. Which may seem sad to you but my icy heart was melting because this meant that a cat was loved, appreciated and truly cared for during their life here (and yes, I’m a shit show when it comes to cats – and well aware of it).
Once I saw the wall of names, I wondered (on accident) how many plaques I would need in a lifetime for my cats. WHAT DID I JUST LET ENTER MY MIND?!?! And then I got closer to this cross with two cats, which reminded me of the first furry love of my life, Nicodeamus and my living, breathing, sometimes way-to-bithcy but I love him anyway Teddy Bear.
After this, all hell broke loose causing rivers of waterworks down my cheeks, snot running from my nose and no f’ing Kleenex in sight.
I kept trying to use the inside shoulder material of the black dress I was wearing to stop the faucet my nose had become. I had the cries you get in a really sad movie, where you’re trying to be quiet but you can’t quite catch your breath and I was on this tour alone (cue the song “All By Myself”) when a stranger came up to me and said “Miss, are you OK?”
I wanted to respond with,”Are you shitting me? I’m standing in a mother f’ing cat cemetery bawling. Alone. Over cats.” But instead I just said “I have bad allergies,” knowing that this person left my side understanding I was out of my cat loving mind.
At least Ernest wasn’t alive to see my embarrassing display. Only a mere 78 tourists got a front row seat to see me making an ass out of myself.
Can a cat lady get any crazier?!