Midway through the month, I ran out of moola for more Friskies chicken pate for the clowder of community cats. Except for one, Alphie, all the ferals here are neutered or spayed. So, Cats Alive SLV fetched three bags of Rachel Ray Nutrish dry food. Lisa Karst had shared she had some dry to send over. Evetter CernonYoung, between her wrangling food for horses, chickens, goats and cats in her care, delivered those to my porch.

Via Amazon ground delivery, my sister shipped 20 pounds of Friskies dry cat food. With the few scoops left in my own bag of Friskies, these salivating mouths are set for a while when it comes to dry goods.

Tigger, Scrappy, Pooh, Punky, Rupurrt, Whiney Winnie, Harley, Torti, Mama Kanga, RooRoo, Mama Too and Alphie have all been raised on both dry and wet. Wet food, consequently, is their primary love. I’m getting lots of rubs against my legs, and my face from Tigger and RooRoo.

Rupurrt, long-haired grey, plops in my lap and rolls on his back with his paws touching my hands for belly rubs.

My “pupper” Schroeder also rolls on his back. They are all saying, “Feed me, feed me,” much like the monstrous Venus Fly Trap in the Little Shop of Horrors.

At the back door in the early morning hours or as the harvest moon shines, van cat Alphie opens his big dark eyes up at me as I peer through the curtained glass. He too meows asking, “Aren’t you going to feed me that great chicken pate or bits?”

I mouthed to him, “I love you, Alphie. That’s all there is for a while.”

Once in a while ginger-tabby Tigger lumbers in and after inhaling some morsels, props himself up on my lap for his extended hug. His left leg and paw stretch upwards to my shoulder, and his head cradles into my arms like he is my little munchkin. His blue eyes are open as he sets his cheek next to my cheek; and sometimes, he even kisses me. We sit like this until my arm goes numb or I have to visit the lady’s room. Ah, I wish we could stay like that all night.

When tortoiseshell colored RooRoo comes over, Schroeder is usually on my lap. She revs her purring up and moves back and forth between me and my Velcro canine. “I’m sorry, RooRoo, we only have dry tonight,” I say.

Dark tabby Scrappy meows all the way through the doggy door, the utility room, through the kitchen into the living room and onto my lap where he pushes my hand for those caresses he loves so much. All the while, he meows, and talks about his day. He tells me that he has missed me and wondered where the meaty meats were and why aren’t there more? He talks about his travels and how he forgot where he lived. When I show him his inside bowl with lots of dry Friskies he begins eating. Not long afterwards, I hear another meow and he is looking for me again. He curls in my lap and sleeps as long as he can there: beside Schroe and close, close to me.

Outside long white-haired Punky jumps up on the feeding station next to the door. Meow, she says. “I’m hungry tonight. Won’t you feed me, feed me, feed me. Meow.”

She insists that I pet her while she eats. So, I run my palm in full strokes from her head to her tail, over and over again. I talk to her. She purrs and eats. She always looks over her shoulders making sure to eye Alphie or Whiney Winnie. She knows she is safe as long as I am beside her, petting her. After I close the door, she scatters to the wind quick enough when Alphie jumps up behind her.

These are the beings, sentient felines in my life, and I love them all.