The Purr of Motherhood

Posted June 2026

I have a two-year-old cat. An acquaintance found her as a scrawny, sick kitten in an abandoned building and brought her to me. I took one look at the little thing and knew she belonged in my household. She was black, like my fifteen-year-old Franny, and had a sprinkle of white on her neck, like my eleven-year-old tuxedo-ish Tennyson.

I first named the kitten Jett but kept calling her Little Bits since she was so tiny and skinny. Jett didn’t fit her, and Little Bits didn’t seem dignified as an official name. So, she became Bitsy. Only a year and nine months later, she’s built like a pot-bellied, tobacco-chewing, long-haul truck driver.

Bitsy has an attitude, a Bring-It-On mindset. When I tell her to get off the dining room table, she scolds me. I lift her and set her on the floor. A second later, she is back on the table. When I tell her to quit sharpening her claws on the couch, she gives me back-talk, then jumps on the rocker and reaches to claw at the living room curtains. She growls at the mailman and Amazon delivery person, letting them know she’s in charge.

I never had children. I decided by age twelve I didn’t want them. That is, until I met my husband John. Then the nesting desire kicked in. The desire, but I didn’t know if I wanted the real thing. By then, we were both “fixed,” so I started tentatively talking adoption. Not seriously, but as an exploration. I’d seen what motherhood added to the lives of my married friends, how it opened up another side of them, changing them from single-hood narcissism into an empathetic, patient, unselfish adult. I wanted that grown-up quality to emerge in myself.

John quelled my talk by bringing home a white kitten.

I’d never had a cat, only dogs as a kid. And holding that sweet fur ball made the heavens open and my world turn aglow. I was madly, incurably, in love. We named her Leilani. John loved everything Hawaiian. I worked in John’s office, so Leilani went to work with us. Nine months later, we adopted a long-haired, smoky-colored male we named Keoni.

Not long after, I met a cat rescuer, and I got involved with trapping at least thirty cats over the years in our Bay Area neighborhood. We lived on a dead end street backed by hills and oil storage. Some young rescues went to an animal shelter if I thought they’d be easily adopted. Some older feral cats we let loose once we got them spayed or neutered. And some became our pets. There was a time when we had thirteen cats, six indoor and seven outdoor. All the outdoor ones had warm porch beds.

Cats came and went, and we saw them through the end with lots of vet bills, love, and tears.

My husband died of complications from Lewy Body Dementia in 2019 after twenty-three years of marriage. Within three weeks of his death, three of our then five cats passed away from old age. The two outdoor were buried in the back yard in their favorite places. I had our sweet indoor cat Yukio cremated to share John’s urn. Leilani, Keoni, and two others had been cremated in prior years, so their ashes went in there, too. We always discussed a family urn. I’ll join them one day.

Franny and Tennyson, the two remaining cats, kept me going through my grieving.

Five years later, Bitsy came along.

Franny and Tennyson allowed Bitsy into the fold. Tennyson pepped up with this new, lively playmate. Before her arrival, he was turning old guy, nursing home-ish, filling his days napping, eating, and pooping. Franny stepped into big sister, you-bug-me mode, warning Bitsy when she’d had enough of her sass. But Bitsy followed Franny around, learning how to use the litter box and to nudge open the flap door to the catio.

Like Franny and Tennyson, I’m in my golden years. But Bitsy keeps me young. I’m her interactive toy. She drags Bug-Bug, a plastic dragonfly attached to a wand, over to me in whatever room I’m in and drops the dragonfly at my feet. This is my cue to run through the house dragging the wand: up the stairs, into the bedroom, down the stairs, through the hall, circling the TV room, across the living room, and back up the stairs. Again. Again. Again.

Franny requires twenty-four feedings a day and won’t eat anything but gravy. I tried many cat broths, but she only likes a few and I must strain out the bits. My pantry is filled to the brim with canned cat food. No matter what I have planned in my day, Franny interrupts it by following me and meowing to be fed. At night, I set up a fifteen-inch, six-compartment feeder in my bedroom so I can sleep and she can eat. I have to shut out the other two cats or they’d polish off her food. I miss their warm bodies, but they’ve adjusted.

During the day, Tennyson stands at my feet whining, wanting to be picked up. I have to pull up a chair next to me for him to sit while I’m eating at the dining room table. I can NEVER be at my computer without him crying for my lap. Forget ZOOM calls. In order to have my hands available to type or to have peace, I must put him in a baby cuddly, strapping him to me. He purrs with pleasure.

I do whatever I have to because I love my pets and want them happy, healthy, and safe. Their needs, preferences, and desires are important to me.

Once upon a time, I questioned the idea of children, but my kitties taught me that I needed them.

I became a mom.