Polly don't need your cracker...
Now I know how crazy cat ladies are made
I don’t even hardly like cats, but I felt constrained to do something for satan. Satan is this black cat that followed my son Troy home one day and decided he liked our place. So he stayed.
Troy and the cat moved.
The cat came back. Troy didn’t.
We all moved, twice, and the cat came along.
But then, he (the cat) made the mistake of puking on top of my son Dillon’s piano. Being chased from the house in a rage, he remained close by, but from that point on he was banished to the outside. Sure, he sometimes gained access to the garage during that cold winter, but he had lost all rights and privileges in the house proper.
Then Dillon bought his first house, up in the forested hills of West Virginia. Nice place, and even nicer, he invited his mother and I to come live in it. The cat followed, but still without hope of ever getting inside.
Anyway, insufferably long story shortened to simply maddening, Alice, shall we say, encouraged me to do something for the ‘poor cat’. So, having collected a number of pallets to do other projects, I determined to build a humble cat house on top of the hastily slapped together pallet wood holder. Now, this short time later, I am feeding 3 cats and counting, but they do like the multi level house.