I believe our calico cat, Patches, was mentally ill. From the beginning, she liked the men in the family. As for the women, she either treated us with disdain or total rejection.

Many times, Patches behaved as though she was having hallucinations, staring intensely at walls or furniture as though something was there.

She was a very picky eater, preferring one brand of boxed cat food. The only other thing she’d touch was tuna. One morning I gave her the last of the cat food. That afternoon, on the way home from school, I sent my daughter into a convenience store with a five-dollar bill, assuming that was plenty. In a minute she was back out with her purchase. I always let the kids keep the change if they went in the store.

When we got home, Patches was yowling. I tore the top off the bag and poured. Patches had her face almost in the dish as dust fogged in her face, nearly choking her. My daughter had bought the cheapest item on the shelf with a cat picture. That may have been the very moment Patches took a dislike to us.

Bud and I settled into bed one night when Patches decided to visit him. He was lying flat on his back when she jumped up on him and started purring loudly and making biscuits on his chest. Eventually, she quieted down.

“Thank goodness, she finally settled down.” I said

“Yea, but I’d feel at lot better about it if she didn’t have her butt right on my face.” The