It's show off your cats week on BookLikes so consider this post the digital equivalent of one of those accordion photo thingies people used to carry in their wallets.  Unless you love cats, you might want to skip this as it's LONG!

Past:

I've had a lot of cats in my life over the years, but the first cat I had as an independent "adult" was Junior:

He came to me when I was at University; a knock on the door of my apartment one day revealed a little boy and a tiny, terrified black and white kitten.  The boy had been playing outside, heard pitiful crying and followed the sound to the dumpster; someone had thrown him away and the boy was looking for someone who'd adopt the tiny, frighted kitten.  It was instant love - not a moments hesitation in spite of the fact that he smelled bad.  He was my little shadow for 12 years afterwards and the only cat I've ever owned who loved riding in the car; he traveled everywhere with me, even though he hated and hissed at everyone except me; he'd climb my leg (but knew only to do it when I wore jeans) when he wanted to be held (which was always).  He started having kidney problems at age 10 and I could not, not just put him down.  The vet showed me how to give him IV fluids; first twice a day, then once a day and eventually once every couple of days and he lived happily for many years after that.  He passed away while I was on holiday in Europe and I still miss him so much it brings tears to my eyes.

While I had Junior I also adopted Boris and Christmas.  Boris was a rescue shelter kitten and Christmas was an abandoned cat who showed up on my doorstep on, you guessed it, Christmas day.

Boris and Christmas made the move with me from Florida to Australia and two sweeter more loving cats you'd be hard pressed to find.  Christmas was shy but loved big pets and Boris loved food!  She passed away about 8 months after moving over, from a kidney stone big enough to cause a blockage - it was removed but her kidney failed to heal.  Boris lived another 3 years or so and passed away from heart failure and old age at 15.

Upon being released from quarantine, Boris and Christmas met their new sister - my partner's cat - Baby.  

For the record, Baby was adopted with her name and was too old to answer to anything else, unfortunately.  She was a beautiful, affectionate cat: until she wasn't.  She was the only cat we've ever had where we've had to discourage kids from playing with her, because she rarely gave any warning she was tired of the attention before she unsheathed her claws.  Right before we moved into our new house, Baby was found to have a large tumour in her stomach; it, along with 2/3 of her stomach were removed and she went through several months of chemo.  
We were prepared for a lot of sick cat and struggling, but she came through it like a champ - the doctors were astounded at how quickly she rebounded and how little weight she lost during treatment.  Unfortunately, about a year later, the cancer returned, much more aggressively than before and she was unable to fight it a second time.

Present

Today we have 3 cats (1 of which is temporary) and I've splashed them about BookLikes before.  Easter was a rescue kitten we adopted after Christmas passed away; we got her, of course, on Easter weekend and my then partner (now husband) thought it a fitting name (I agreed).  Baby surprisingly took to her like she was her lost lost kitten - zero angst upon bringing Easter home.  Boris, too pretty much took the attitude of "eh, whatever".

What we didn't know when we brought her home was she was already infected with cat flu.  A few days after we brought her home she started the full sneezing, running eyes routine.  Unfortunately, she was hit with it hard and a couple of days on, she stopped eating (if cats can't smell, they won't eat).  As you may have guessed from reading some of what we've done to try to keep our cats healthy, I am unable to just let "nature take its course" - so I force-fed her liquified food and medicine for 5 days; oftentimes it was a dead heat as to which of us was more covered in food and medicine afterwards as she'd spit it all back out at me and squirm like a mad snake the whole time, but I was determined to get enough food in her to keep her liver safe and I succeeded.  After 5 days of turning her back on food I offered her, she suddenly fell on it like, well, a starving cat.  She ate so much her belly got visibly distended.  It's the most she's ever, before or since, eaten in a day.

She's a sweetheart, incredibly affectionate and the most like Junior of any cat I've had: she's very much "mine" and strongly dislikes just about everyone else in the world except my husband who she's pretty sure hangs the moon in the sky just for her.  We figured that given how she loved Baby and Boris, bringing a new kitten into the house would be a piece of cake.

We figured wrong, of course.  Carlito was our only ever non-rescue kitten.  One of Mason's employees bred their Ragdoll cats and the litter was born a short time after Baby passed away, so MT was offered the pick of the littler as a gift.  How could we possibly say "no" to this little guy?

As it turns out, Easter could say no; often and at great volume.  There are no pictures here of Carlito and Easter together because they try never to be in the same place at the same time.  They've reached a state of peaceful co-existence by simply giving each other a lot of space.  He's a big mush-ball though and he know's he's beautiful and likes to be admired by everyone who comes in the house.  He's the drama-free cat in our lives at the moment, although usually good for entertainment of the doofus variety.  

He also worships the ground my husband walks on: he wails when MT leaves the house and can hear his car when it turns into the street and tears through the house towards the front door making rapturous sounds the entire way.  He "talks" to MT the entire time he's coming in the front door and once he sits down, Carlito is on his lap and chest, staring at him as if in worship.  Embarrassing for a cat, really.  He tolerates me with good humour but his existence revolves around MT.  The plus side of this is that I am not the one he wakes up at 5am by walking on my face and meowing in my ear.  :D

Finally, our temporary step-cat, Wasabi:

I wish I could say integration is going well, but alas it is not.  4.5 months later and he still hates Easter and frequently stalks and attacks her.  We have tried everything from rescue remedy to pheromones (which do seem to help a little bit) but short of a Xanax IV drip, I think we're just going to have to hunker down and wait it out.  His 'real' parents are staying in AU (change of plans) so as soon as they find a house, he'll be going home to his family.  I love him, he's a sweet old thing when he's not trying to kill Easter, but I admit I'll be less sad than I anticipated 4 months ago to see him go back home.

Present: Holly

The only survivor of what once used to be a trio of adoptees.  I've had her from age 6 weeks onwards ... she's 15 years old this month.  Like all of my cats, a rescue: She was born in Grand Canyon National Park, where some unfeeling people had left her pregnant mama behind to give birth alone, in the wild.  Mom and most of the litter unfortunately didn't make it, but two adorable identical twins (later named Holly and Molly) were taken to the shelter where visitors to the park have to drop off their pets during their stay.  One of those visitors was me.  The rest, as they say, is history ...

Holly is a complete and total snuggle bunny, incredibly affectionate, and frequently incredibly funny, a downright little clown (and I am firmly convinced, totally on purpose) -- never mind that from early on, she also appropriated the alpha role in my four-pawed family and she's clearly of the opinion that humankind's true role in life is to serve their feline princes(ses).  But she does it all with so much charm and love, you just can't help but love her back and fulfil her every wish! :)

Past: Gypsy

Gypsy was my very first cat -- he showed up one day towards the end of the spring term in my neighborhood at university: a scrawny, dusty gray furball who had obviously spent a considerable amount of time outside; long enough to start being scared of humans, however desperately he needed to be fed.  My landlady, a cat owner herself, eventually managed to coax him close enough to the house in order to be able to pick him up and give him a new temporary home on her (fenced-in) back porch, where she, her boyfriend and I proceeded to take turns spending time with him and slowly earning his trust.  Once properly taken care of by the vet and brushed, he revealed himself to be a darling creature with shiny, soft black fur, and the gentlest and most unassuming tomcat that ever breathed.

When it came time for me to move away, there was no question but that Gypsy (who by that time had long moved into my own room) was going to accompany me. When, a little over year later, Holly came to join us, he at first registered marked (and for him, extremely rare) dissent, but tiny little creature that she was, she didn't give up trying to win him over, literally getting closer to him inch by inch and day by day, until finally -- within approximately a month -- one day I came home to find them curled together ying-yang style.  From that day on, she was the (other) great love of his life, and he became a total pushover for her every whim, though most of the time all she really wanted was his love and attention ... and she generally got it, too!

I never knew Gypsy's exact age, but he was with me for almost 10 years, and his last vet thought that he had probably lived to a downright biblical age for cats -- almost certainly 19, if not even 20 or 21 years.  He died in April 2008, and there's not a day that I don't miss him.

Past: Tiger

I didn't want a third cat.  For two years I kept telling my petsitter, who was active in all sorts of animal rescue charities, that I thought it would be unfair to Gypsy and Holly, and probably also to the new cat, to add one more to their company.  I very much doubted that the changed dynamics were going to work.  For two years, my petsitter kept telling me about every new rescued litter she had temporarily taken in and urged me to come and take a look at them.  For two years I refused, knowing full well that it would take me about a nanosecond to cave and change my mind.

One day, I stopped by her place to drop off something -- and it turned out she had just taken in another mama cat and her newborn litter; this one literally rescued from a dustbin.

I took one look at them.  I caved instantly.  (It even took less than a nanosecond, I believe in hindsight.)

So, Tiger came to stay with us.  Like Holly, she was about 6 weeks old when I adopted her.  Gypsy, as in Holly's case, initially played Mr. Grumpy, but accepted her much quicker than it had taken him to accept Holly (having concluded, obviously, that the addition of a new cat to the household wasn't going to deprive him of my love and might even have its advantages, in providing him with a new little playmate).  Holly, on the other hand, was furious -- at me, first and foremost, for daring to inflict competition for my love on her.  Wasn't she the cutest cat on the planet?  Was her love suddenly not enough for me any longer? -- It took some serious talking to her and a lot of love, pets and treats to make her understand that she was not being sidelined.  Eventually she grudgingly accepted Tiger's presence, even though she and Tiger never grew nearly as close as she and Gypsy had become at this point.

Tiger was, like Holly, extremely affectionate as a kitten, but became a downright tomboy as she grew up; without ever losing her fondness for pets and attention, though.

She suddenly started to lose weight in early spring of 2012, but was at first declared in no serious state by her vet.  The vet prescribed pills for her liver, which was showing slightly less than normal test results ("but nothing truly worrying," I was told).  Within a week, she was so ill that she could hardly move.  I took her to the emergency vet service. Ultimately, she was diagnosed (by the same vet who only a week earlier had told me that there was nothing seriously wrong with her!) to have advanced cancer of the liver; so advanced, in fact, that nothing could be done for her. 

She, too, has been missed every single day, ever since.

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