I have but one, Smokey but I take a lot of pics of her. She likes to lounge on my chest while I’m on the 'puter.
Smokey is a brush-ho. No matter where she is in the house, if I sing the brush-ho song (to the tune of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang) she comes a-running, purring all the way. If she doesn’t see the brush, she stops in her tracks until I pick it up.
Also, of late,she has started chasing her tail, for no apparent reason. I thought only dogs did that. Who knew?
Squeaky is my old man. He’ll be 16 this summer. He suffers from a thyroid problem, so we have to give him pills and feed him high calorie food or else he’s nothing but skin and bones. He’s also losing (or lost) his hearing. The vet can’t find anything wrong with his ears, they’re just old.
Squeaky’s my sweet baby. He has the loudest purr I’ve ever heard. It’s very, very soothing. And his fur is so soft and silky. He’s got Hostess Snowball feet, and he wears fluffy pantaloons. He loves to be brushed and tolerates having his tail brushed, though he doesn’t like having his fluffy bottom brushed. But he loves to have his face brushed. If he had an opposable thumb, he’d probably brush it himself.
Orion does not have a face. He’s also part Shmoo. Or part Gleep. There’s some debate in the matter. He just turned 9. What he lacks in age, he makes up for in weight. I’ve asked the vet if we could suck out some of Orion’s fat and inject it into Squeaky, but he never thinks it’s a good idea. He also doesn’t laugh. Some people!
Orion is a cuddler. He sleeps between my husband and me every night. He doesn’t seem very bright, but he makes up for it in cuteness. He has figured out, however, how to open the closet door himself, and sometimes he sleeps in there. He’s also fascinated by the Littermaid self-cleaning cat box, and will frequently run in to watch the rake when it kicks on. I was afraid he’d be frightened by it, but fortunately not.
Those are my baby boys. I also have two cute dogs I love very much, but this isn’t about them.
I’m currently owned by four cats total – only two of which reside with me. The dive master and I still maintain two households (long story because of land development issues where he lives).
I have two at the moment: Murphy my very elderly tuxedo who is nearing or is at 20 years in age, and Turk my giant gray furball.
hope those links work. i’m terrible at getting them right. let me know if they failed.
Murphy came screaming out of the darkness one night, a much smaller and younger cat than he is now, as I was going in my place of work (I was a print reporter a century or so ago). I petted him kindly and went about my business. An hour later I came out – and there he was.
I scooped him up, went to my sister’s house and dumped this strange cat on her because I had to go cover a council meeting. A bit startled, but game, she looked after him until I could come back. He’s been in my life ever since.
Turk is a somewhat longer story. I was working in my office at my current job about three years ago when I sensed a presence in my doorway. I need to digress here slightly. I work in the admin building of a medium-size wastewater treatment plant on the far north side of Indianapolis. Working in the wastewater industry is a hard and very physical job, requiring size, strength and stamina, and boy do we have that in spades, including a couple of former Navy SEAL candidates. So when I looked up and saw our chief operator filling my doorway I mean he **filled ** my doorway. The conversation went something like this:
Ron: hey.
No pleasantries from me. I know these guys. The only time they appear in my doorway is if they need something.
Me: what?
Ron: whatcha doing?
I lean back in my chair and give him the ‘evil eye.’ This is standard procedure, of course. The whole department – all 13 of us - get along very well, and this is a typical routine between Ron and I. We’ve been together for seven years now.
Me: I repeat myself: what?
Ron: wanna cat?
I wince. He knows damn well I’m a sucker on legs for animals.
Me: oh, god… what did you find…
Ron: We found a little kitten at Flatfork (another of our smaller wastewater plants). It’s in real bad shape. I think it’s either been abandoned or gotten lost or something. We were wondering if you‘d take it.
God, I think… it’s probably sicker than hell, full of worms and disease, feline leukemia… I’ll have to have it put to sleep, I just know it…
Me: I hate you. Go get the poor thing.
He grins and evaporates, which is a neat trick for a guy about 230 pounds and six feet two. And he’s one of the smaller ones.
Two hours later I’m coming out of our laboratory section with paperwork, when I see him put down something in the hallway. The tiniest, dirtiest, most bedraggled little morsel on the damn planet is standing there, very wobbly. It took about two steps, sits down, and made with the most pitiable and hoarsest meow I’ve ever heard in my life. Ron picked him up. The kitten fit in the palm of his hand - with room to spare. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so small in the flesh before.
I fell: hook, line and sinker.
In those days, you could disappear without reprisal for an hour or two if you needed to get something done while on the job. Ron put the morsel in a box and I was off to the vet’s office. I turned the little guy over to my vet for examination, etc., and of course, if it was positive for feline aids or leukemia – euthanization.
No choice in that. I saw a cat dying of it. Once. It’s a horrible thing to let an animal suffer through and I wasn’t going to let this little thing go the same way, if that were the case.
After receiving assurances they’d call me when they were done, one way or the other, back I went to work. Two hours later, Mike called me. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Healthy as a horse. No fleas, worms or infections of any kind. I’m stunned. We think it’s a boy, although that’s still up for debate at the moment, he’s so young. You’ll know in a few weeks for sure. The only thing wrong with him is that he sounds like a six-pack-a-day smoker. Probably from being alone. Cried himself hoarse, I think. I’ll tell you this: another few days and the little guy wouldn’t have made it. Pretty darn close to death.’
He guestimated the kitten at about two to three weeks, tops. Oh, man… Learning this, I immediately called the dive master. The morsel would have to be bottle-fed. Continuously. I couldn’t do it at my job, but since he works at home, he could. And he did – for weeks and weeks, god bless him. He got to name the little guy: Turk for our recent dive at Turks and Caicos Islands in the lower Bahamas.
That was three years ago. Today, Turk is huge - size of a maine coon now, sweet, and lovable - and a walking fur factory. my picture doesn’t do him justice, size-wise. I have to vacuum every day or so to keep up with the shedding. 
The dive master is gracious enough to share his felines with me: four-year-old Mako, named for the shark because he is all gray with the softest fur I’ve ever touched. It’s like petting a mink coat – and I’m not exaggerating.
And then there’s Kona, a tiny, ocelot-striped tabby he rescued from the side of the road a few months ago. Now about six months or so old, she’s petite and solemn – when she’s not tear-assing around the house or on the bed. Unlike Mako, who will visit, and then leave as befitting his position of master of the house, she snuggles right with us at night and isn’t the least bit afraid of all of the dive master’s dogs (4 very large ones!) 
yes, it’s a zoo - i forgot to mention the red-headed velociraptor from hell (trigger the giant greenwing macaw) and i love being with all of them every minute i’m there. alas, no pics of the dive master kitties (i’m working on it!), but here’s one of trigger. all five pounds of her:
I have two, but Cory is the one everyone likes because he’s up for anything as long as it’s attention.
I have two kitties. PJ was purchased from the shelter as a present for my wife. He is paper bag color with a white nose and belly. He is the smartest cat I know. We started taking him out for walks on a leash. He took to the leash very well. We were the only people at the pet store walking our cat around. We always let him stare into the bird enclosure for a few minutes. Later my wife figured out that he doesn’t need the leash. We walk him to the park occasionally and he just follows along.
Our second cat’s name is Spade. She can’t help that she’s dumb, she has a small brain. Sometime after we got PJ, somebody put Spade on our doorstep. She was a horrible, flee infested worm and mite home. We’re pretty sure she was the runt. We are also pretty sure that she was left on our doorstep in spite. No matter she’s a wonderfull kitty. She is a serious scaredy cat. Unlike PJ, she hates the idea of going anywhere near outside. Anything can startle her and send her under the bed. She is the cuddliest of the two though. She will often come to snuggle up to me at night.
We recently got them a gigantic kitty tree. At first they were both afraid of it. PJ refused to go near it. So I fed them breakfast on top of it. PJ starved himself for two hours before giving in. Now they both love it.
I don’t know how to post pictures.
Oh, and here’s a picture of Dewey on the cabinets, loving life.
I have two (well, they actually belong to Tucker-Babe).
One is a 13-year-old male. He has a mostly white body with a gray tabby cap, saddle, and tail, the tip of which is white. He was found by one of Tucker-Babe’s friends in the road when he was about two months old. The friend already had several cats, so we took it. Even in his senior citizen days, he still likes hopping up and purring in any available lap.
The other is a four-year-old sort of a gray tabby (with some small, but noticeable orange highlights). There might be a name for this kind of coloring. She was found by the daughter of a co-worker of mine when she was about five months old. She was standing close to her (probable) litter-mate in the parking lot of the daughter’s apartment complex. The litter-mate had apparently been run over. The daughter wasn’t able to keep it, and we had just lost a year-old cat to an abscess (we didn’t catch it in time, and the infection had already started spreading when we got her to the vet), so we took it.
We also rescued two orange tabby males, approximately two months old, from a convenience store. We kept them until they had grown large enough to have a good chance of escaping in case a coon or coyote came a-huntin’. Then we took to a local barn to become expert mousers. They’re a year old this month.
I’ll post some pictures when I get a chance.
I got my cat from a shelter when she was 3-years old.
She likes people – all people. If she’s not getting enough attention (she’s NEVER getting enough attention) she will sit beside you and poke-poke-poke you with her paw.
She comes when she’s called – but only if I’m doing the calling.
She doesn’t like to eat people food, but if I’m snacking on the couch, she demands to sniff at anything I’m consuming.
She’s never swiped at me, hissed, or growled in the two years I’ve had her. And I like to pick her up, squeeze her, pet her fur the wrong way, and knock her over.
She likes to get smacked with empty soda/water bottles. Loves it. She’s a dirty, dirty girl.
She likes to get under the sheets when I’m making the bed.