How to Become a Poster Child for Pussy

How does one become a pussy poster child you are wondering?

You adopt five fucking cats in six months (yes, you read that right). And then become that bona fide crazy lady who is a borderline hoarder of little furry beasts. But I didn’t mean to….

You see, my love of pussy started at a young age and never waned.

I might as well have been born a kitten.

I might as well have been born a kitten.

Planning vacation activities as an adult around cat shows on piers qualifies one for being a deranged feline lover.

Elbowing four year olds for a front seat.

Elbowing four-year olds for a front row seat to watch cats that do tricks.

Falling in love with aforementioned cat show host because he, well loves pussy as much as I do.

Soul mate.

Just as crazy about cats as me. #soulmates

Visiting Ernest Hemingway’s cat cemetery in Key West almost put me over the edge.


Sweet little souls I never knew.

Naturally I made an ass out of myself crying alone in a fucking cemetery for cats. Actually, I was bawling behind sunglasses so much so that a stranger came up and asked me if I was OK.


Why can’t all cats live forever?

Until that Key West vacation, I was a one pussy at a time kinda gal. Even though I’d always loved cats of all kinds, I had one precious prince at a time. Until there was New Cat.

Fuck Face.

A true Fuck Face of a feline.

New New showed up at my door one cold, snowy night and not wanting to love him after of course taking him in, I didn’t give him a name. He insisted on staying put in the mini manse and so, we kept this little Dennis the Menace who tore down window shades to get a better view outside, climbed curtains, broke vases, was once almost washed with clothes – you get the idea.

Couldn't even piss without him all up in my grill.

Hell, I couldn’t even piss without him all up in my grill.

Yet NC and Ted fell in love and became playmates as well as bruthas from anotha mutha.

Brotherly love.

Hugs, love and punches to the face.

The first time I ever felt famous was due to New Cat because I had to get a prescription for him from Walgreens. And felt like an ass hat when the nice pharmacist asked for the patient’s name and I replied with New Cat to a quizzical look. Which was then called over the loud speaker when the medicine was ready…so now I get notes on my personal prescriptions from my pharmacist (who is now a friend!).

Famous Pussy Lover

Nashville’s famous pussy lover in the flesh.

But very suddenly last summer, the most annoying cat in the world died of saddle thrombosis (a blood clot on his spine) at an emergency clinic in the middle of the night. To say that Ted was inconsolable is an understatement.

Pretty inconsolable.

Terribly sad mama and baby bear.

And then, I did the only thing a mother could do.

While stopping in at Pet Smart for Ted’s $75 bag of cat food, I accidentally saw these two mugs as Sweet Faces Rescue resided in the main aisle of the store with oodles of cats and kittens needing homes.

Double take on New Cat.

Double take on New Cat.

And then, I made the mistake of holding them.

At the same time.

Two's not a crowd.

Two’s not a crowd.

Fast forward three seconds and I was adopting two bros for my main squeeze ho.


Uh…this happened.

Mothers always know what’s best for their kids and the attraction between the twins and The Bear was immediate.

Ted fell hard.

Ted fell hard.

Precious the chug, not so much.

Precious, not so much.

We had to ease her into the tuxedo twins.

I knew the two new felines needed names and due to my love of all things Griswold, I instantly knew what I would name this duo.

Naturally it onlyl made sensse.

Hallelujah! Holy shit! She’s naming them!

And so the mini manse then consisted of Clark, Cousin Eddie, Ted and Precious.

Clark, Eddie, Teddy and Presh.

The chug and the pussies.

But then, keeping in line with the Griswolds, my cat shitter got full.


Cat shit alert.

Cat shit alarm clock is a fun way to wake up.

Diharrea galore made Ted ultra sick.

SKin and bones due to

Not a happy skin and bones camper.

The twins and Ted needed to be separated, so Clark and Cousin Eddie went to visit Dada CBXB.


Obviously hating life with Gpa.

Dad fell in love with the twins by the time Mr. Bear was back in the saddle so, in keeping with the Griswold family style, I wrapped up the damn cats and gave them to him for Christmas.

Wrapped up the damn cats.

My equivalent of Aunt Bethany.

Ted was well, Presh was happy but then bad shit happened to me.

Who Loves me?

Who Loves me? Cats. Cats will love me.

I was in dire straits for too long, wallowing in depths of despair while Tedstar and Presh were like two old fogies in a nursing home.

And I turned

We all needed help.

So, Mama CBXB thought it would be a genius idea to get me a kitten.


I didn’t hate that idea. At all.

Elsa Pants

So we ended up with Elsa Pants.

Typically, I rescue cats that are at least two years old, knowing their chances dwindle with each passing year they age. With this in mind, as I stood up with the newest addition to my family in Pet Smart, I saw these eyes peering out of a cage.

FUck. Those New Cat Eyes again.

Fuck. New Cat Crazy Eyes.

But wait! There was also a brother in the back of the cage who wasn’t adjusting well to rescue life because they were four when their owner surrendered them (stupid motherfuckers like that piss me off).

Strong, silent type.

Strong, silent type.

Naturally, I couldn’t leave them there one without the other. Yes, you heard that right.

Maybe I should just hold them? Maybe I should just try them on for size?

Maybe I should just hold them? Maybe I should just try them on for size?



Penny, the Queen of Sweet Faces Cat and Kitten Rescue about fell over when I told her I’d take all three of them (since I had rescued Clark and Cousin Eddie just a few months prior).



And just like that, I became even more famous for my love of pussy.


I’m not sure who was most excited about getting to their new permanent mini manse home – the pussies or me.

Elsa Pants, Ruby Sue and Rocky. Two Griswolds and a princess on their way home.

Elsa Pants, Ruby Sue and Rocky. Two Griswolds and a princess on their way home.

Turns out, they were welcomed with furry Teddy Bear arms upon their arrival.

Settled in right away.

In order of importance according to Ted.

Naturally I’ve taken all kinds of shit for having four cats and chug, loving candles, reading and being single.

Daily occurrence.

Daily occurrence.

Fun gifts.

Appropriate gifts.

Friendly reminder.

Just doing what the advertisements that pop up on Facebook say!

But in the end, I really just don’t give a fuck because rescuing these babies has enriched not only their lives, they’ve helped save me. They’ve aided my sick little bear by assisting him to live on some love. And the company I keep is always feisty.

First Mate sent this to me one Saturday and I knew I’d finally made it as a Pussy Poster Child.

She said, “this just popped up on my feed and made me smile.”


Now get on over to Sweet Faces Cat & Kitten rescue and stare into my smiling, happy face. And if you can’t adopt, why don’t you donate?

On a side note, I’m not allowed to go to Pet Smart when I’m upset. So if you see me headed that way….STOP ME.




Bunny Love

I have been accused of being a hoarder (when really I think of myself as a keeper of memories). But sometimes I can’t help falling in love with inanimate objects (just rereading that line makes me think I need to go to some kind of support group….”Hi my name is Captain and I love stuffed animals, shoes, my antique Coke machine….” Oh Gawd. Is it really a wonder that I’ve never been hitched?).

Not to be confused with the likes of folks on the A&E TV show but I tend to hold onto things that I love. FOREVER. I realized this ran in my family when my Grandma passed away and as we were in her basement, going through various items collected through her life I opened up a purse, finding it full of unused pencils (I mean, if the world comes to an end, you definitely need non-sharpened pencils…for weapons, possibly?). Finding her stash only validated my need to keep my childhood eraser (yes, erasers), sticker, stamp and rock (gravel, mostly) collections tucked away in boxes (I mean, my grandchildren (or grandpets in my case) will need something to look through once I cease to exist). Hello – someone needs to carry Grandma V’s hoarding torch (although you’ll be finding my purses overflowing with lipstick, not pencils).

Flipping through old pictures, I came across a few that shed light on the fact that I may need someone to call the hoarding show on my behalf – over a stuffed animal (and the various collections listed above). However in my defense, I’ve apparently had him by my side since my conception.

Meet Bunny…

Kickin’ it with Bunny (very clever and creative name, I know) after a long day at the zoo.

Bunny was extremely fabulous practice for my future cat ownership because all he ever wanted to do was nap with me (and my dad).

Rough life for a stuffed animal.

Bunny grew up with me in rural Iowa – riding in my baby buggy when I was a kid, watching me prep for junior high, easing my fears about attending a city high school after a move, comforting me when I was sick, absorbing tears from my broken hearts (those sessions never seem to end), staying up late to watch Saturday Night Live, accompanying me to college and finally, Nashville, where he sits on my bed today (I swear to Jesus that he sits behind a pillow and is the one and ONLY stuffed animal on the bed – see proof below. Although I am the chick with seven throw pillows – but seriously, I like to lay on them and watch TV and sometimes, just sometimes eat pizza while sipping a Skinny Pirate (or three) lay/sitting with my ancient pet bunny (and Teddy, of course) watching TV Land).

Now you see him….

What bunny?

I realize people have their own versions of Bunny – whether it be a blanket, pillow, toy – but it never dawned on me how much I f’ing love this stuffed animal (I almost broke up with a boyfriend when I saw him kick Bunny like a soccer ball. Which he immediately denied when I accused him of trying to murder what was left of my beloved childhood bestie) until I thought about the longevity of our relationship. Yes, I just realized that I referred to a relationship in regard to a cotton filled creature. Does anyone have the number to the nut house (or maybe in my case burrow)?

A very loved on, stitched up, raggedy assed, tired lump of stuffing.

Because of the comfort he always could give me while I was away from home as a kid, anxious and lost in college or lonely and scared when I first moved to Nashville, there’s nothing but love for Bunny. So call off the intervention.

Now go give your version of Bunny (I know you have one) some love.