Long before Halloween marketing turned them into spooky décor, black cats were divine royalty. In ancient Egypt, they were not omens but oracles. These miniature panthers belonged to Bastet, the goddess of pleasure, fertility, good health, and protection. Bastet began as a lioness, the sun’s avenger, daughter of Ra, sister of Sekhmet, wife of Ptah, and mother of Mihos, a family tree that reads like a Biblical soap opera with better accessories. Over time, as her temper softened, she shed her lion form and took the shape of a domestic cat. She came to represent warmth, sensuality, and that silent, ungovernable power that defines womanhood when it is left to rule itself. Temples to Bastet once filled the city of Bubastis. Each year, pilgrims arrived by the tens of thousands. The air smelled of wine, incense, and fevered devotion. Music drifted through the streets while golden statues gleamed in the ambient torchlight. Mummified cats, wrapped in linen and sealed in gilt coffins, were offe...

 

Some cats are lap potatoes. Others? They’re pure muscle wrapped in fur, built like sprinters or gymnasts. If agility were an Olympic event, these five would own the podium. Abyssinian — The Acrobat • Nickname: The Parkour Artist • Lean, long-legged, and wired like a coil. • They don’t walk into a room — they scale it, bounce off the fridge, and perch on the curtain rod like it’s natural. Oriental Shorthair — The Gymnast • Nickname: The Springboard • Insane muscle-to-bone ratio; can leap 6+ feet straight up. • Combine that with curiosity, and suddenly every shelf is a jungle gym. Bengal — The Sprinter • Nickname: The Wild Card • Descended from Asian leopard cats, they’ve got that wildcat engine. • Known for lightning sprints and gravity-defying vertical jumps. Savannah Cat — The High Jumper • Nickname: The NBA Draft Pick • Hybrid of domestic cats and servals. • Famous for jumping up to 8 feet in the air — like dunking on your living room. Turkish Van — The Swimmer • Nickname: The Aquac...

There are cats, and then there are Maine Coons. A regular cat loafs on the couch and ignores you. A Maine Coon walks into the room like it owns the property and is checking whether you paid rent. They’re not pets so much as hairy roommates with boundary issues. Nobody really knows where they came from. The sensible answer is New England barns and cold winters. But sensible answers are dull, so folklore insists on better ones: that they’re Viking ship cats, or half raccoon, or descended from Marie Antoinette’s secret French escape cats. Science disagrees, but science has never looked a Maine Coon in the eye. If you’ve ever stared into that shaggy face and thought, “This animal could have pillaged a coastline,” you understand why the legends persist. Their size is half the story. Normal cats hover around ten pounds. Maine Coons double it without blinking. They stretch across couches like a bad Airbnb guest. Their tails look stolen from raccoons, their paws look designed for snowshoeing, ...

It was Tuesday, and Tuesdays have a smell all their own. Trouble was brewing, a thick cut of it hanging in the air, and this time it stunk of fish and bad luck. That morning, the mark sat out in the open: one sardine—oil-slick, silver, gleaming with the cheap promise of a payday. I tailed it all day from my perch on the windowsill, eyes narrowed to slits, tail carving slow figure-eights on the linoleum. Waiting for the break. Then the phone sounded off. My human, slave to routine, turned her back to babble to some unseen accomplice. That’s when the job went to hell. He slipped in through the cracked window: Jasper—gray as regret, cold-eyed, feet soft like secrets. I’d seen his handiwork before, and it always ended the same way—someone looking foolish, someone else holding the goods. This time, it looked like I’d drawn the short straw. Jasper moved—fast, low, liquid—barely a whisper across the tile. One heartbeat, he was at the mark; by the next, the sardine was gone. Vanished. All that...

  Hollywood has always insisted that the most prominent stars walk on two legs, sip Champagne, and know which fork to use. But occasionally, the real professionals show up on four legs, disregard the silverware entirely, and outperform everyone with a minimal amount of effort. This weekend, we're looking past the marquee names to acknowledge two of the industry’s finest specialists: a terrier with better timing than most leading men, and a ginger cat adept at stealing scenes—and likely any unattended snacks. The Thin Man films are remembered for their breezy dialogue and the kind of flippant marital chemistry one only hopes to reenact at parties. William Powell and Myrna Loy make detective work look like a series of cocktail hours that get slightly interrupted by murder. But Asta, the wire fox terrier, operated on his own terms: impeccably trained, unflappable, and somehow always in the perfect spot for a reaction shot. Asta—stage name for the far less glamorous “Skippy”—wasn’t jus...

Caturday came and went, smug as always, with the cats preening like they own the joint (and to be fair, they probably do). But now the dogs have stormed the gates, demanding their turn. They insist Sunday belongs to them, and frankly, have you ever tried arguing with a Labrador who thinks democracy means “fetch until collapse”? So here we are: Sunday, split down the middle. Cats glaring from the back of the sofa like minor royals forced to mingle with the peasants, while dogs skid across hardwood floors, ears flapping like busted parachutes. Every household is currently a Cold War between the aloof and the overeager. This is your chance to document the madness: cats who plot from the shadows, dogs who weaponize drool, or any creature who believes the couch is a throne and you are but their valet. Extra credit if you catch the rare détente—cat and dog curled up together, pretending they’re not sworn enemies until breakfast. Post your tyrants, loafers, divas, and bed-hogs. The stage is y...

You think gossip columnists knew the dirt in old Hollywood? They were amateurs. Hedda Hopper, Louella Parsons — they only wrote what the studios allowed. The real witness was the cat on the lot. Black fur, green eyes, tail like a cigarette trail. He saw everything. He wasn’t on the payroll. No one fed him except the grip who liked to sneak scraps from the commissary. He was just there, perched on rafters, weaving between cables, sleeping in director’s chairs, when the real director stumbled off set to throw up gin. The cat saw producers pawing at ingénues in dressing rooms. He saw directors melt down in bourbon-soaked rants, screaming about art in the middle of a picture that was already doomed. He saw stars rehearse their fake smiles in mirrors before cameras rolled, the grin tightening like a noose once the makeup dried. Every morning, he slinked across the soundstage like he owned it, winding between tripods and boom mics, silent as the secrets he carried. The sound men called him b...

  Every town has them. The vet office cat who slinks around like a mob boss. The library cat curled up on the biographies, silently judging you for checking out a romance novel. The shop cat who “greets” customers by staring directly through them.  They’re not pets. They’re employees. Unpaid, untrained, irreplaceable. And unlike your human coworkers, they can’t be fired. A working cat doesn’t apply for the job—it just shows up, clocks in with a nap, and dares anyone to argue. At the vet, they’re emotional support for nervous owners—and psychological warfare for the dogs trembling in plastic carriers. Dogs come in wagging their tails, leave with their dignity in tatters because Mr. Whiskers stared at them like a loan shark. “Nice kneecaps, shame if something happened.” In libraries, they’re mascots and archivists, curling up on open dictionaries like living punctuation. They are scholars of dust and silence, connoisseurs of sun-warmed windowsills. Patrons think they’re sweet. T...

Cats are the aristocrats of the domestic kingdom. You don’t own them. You apply for residency in their palace, and if you’re lucky, they grant you probationary butler status. The vetting process is ruthless but disguised as charm: Can you open a can on command? Will you abandon your nap to play or offer a fishy treat? Are you willing to sleep in a position that requires spinal realignment to avoid disturbing them? If you pass these tests, you will live the rest of your days serving a small, fuzzy monarch who sometimes murders socks and delivers them to you like a hunting trophy. Breed is irrelevant—Bengals, Persians, shelter enigmas—they all know they are the reincarnation of Cleopatra, lounging on your furniture as though it were a throne and surveying their kingdom with bored contempt. They tolerate your presence because you keep the kibble flowing and the lap warm. Occasionally, they reward you with a slow blink, which is the feline equivalent of a papal blessing. Today is their day...

  There is no such thing as a Black Panther. That’s what the biologists will tell you. And technically, they’re right. "Black panther" is not a distinct species. It’s a title, like a crown passed down through bloodlines and shadows. The name is used to describe melanistic leopards in Asia and Africa and melanistic jaguars in the Americas. The sleek black coat comes from a recessive gene mutation that causes an excess of dark pigment, cloaking the animal in what looks like pure midnight. But look closely, and you’ll see the ghost of rosettes hiding beneath the darkness—a secret print on a secretive animal. They are not the norm. They are not common. And that’s precisely the point. Black panthers are nature’s rare rebellion. The statistical anomaly that survived. Like the underdog who didn’t just make it out of the gutter, but did so in silk and silence. Most people have never seen one. Not in the wild. Not even in zoos. Melanism is rare: about 11% of leopards and jaguars carry...

  I wrote years and years ago during a harrowing chapter in my life. Since some of you liked my noir writing. I will share this one with you. I hope you like it.    THE FERAL CAT UPSTAIRS:
 A Noir Confessional in 9 Lives or Less!  I’ve never seen him, not clearly.
A silhouette, once—on the landing. Shadow on shadow, staring back like he knew all my secrets and none of my boundaries. He blinked once. Slowly. The universal cat sign for you are beneath me but useful. Then he was gone.  We call him “Upstairs,” like a ghost or a rumor.
 He doesn’t meow. He doesn’t purr. He thuds. Late at night, just as you’re drifting off or trying to decide if carbs are still the enemy, he makes his move. A heavy-footed gallop across the ceiling like he’s chasing God or dodging rent.  I’ve questioned my sanity, naturally.
 Asked the neighbors, the landlord, the moon. No one claims him. No one feeds him. No one has ever seen a litter box. And yet the scratching continues. T...

  If you’ve ever looked at your housecat and thought, "I wish this fur-covered decorative pillow had the wild, pulsing energy of a jungle predator and the self-esteem of a Hollywood publicist," allow me to introduce you to the Bengal. They are the feline equivalent of a panther in designer leopard print, with the soul of a chaotic neutral sorcerer. A Bengal cat is what happens when an Asian leopard cat has a fling with a domestic feline, and their descendants collectively agree to never calm down. Ever.  Bengals are, quite frankly, almost too beautiful. Their coats shimmer with something called "glitter," a genetic feature that makes them glisten in the light like they’ve just returned from a spa day with the moon. Spotted or marbled, they strut through your home like 90s megamodels with knives for feet. Their eyes, often electric green or gold, don’t just look at you—they audit your life choices.   Take SukiCat , for example: an online Bengal goddess who travels ...

  Imagine a calico cat draped across a sun-warmed wall in Santorini. Behind her, the Aegean shimmers with timeless indifference. Tourists pause to photograph her, drawn to her poise, her insouciance. She remains unmoved.This is not a pet, nor an accessory. She is a living emblem of ancient autonomy—not waiting to be claimed, not interested in your approval. She may grant you a moment of her presence. She may not. Either way, you’ll remember her. The domestic cat’s arrival in Greece likely occurred through maritime trade routes, with Egyptian and Phoenician sailors inadvertently delivering feline emissaries to the Mediterranean. Though not formally deified in Greek antiquity, cats occupied a quiet yet meaningful space in the rural and monastic consciousness. Byzantine monks welcomed their company—and their utility. A cat, after all, preserved sacred scrolls more efficiently than any scripture. In this setting, emotional support was not sentimentalized. It was implicit, reciprocal, a...

Bhutan has seen a remarkable 27% increase in its tiger population since 2015, with the latest survey estimating the presence of 131 tigers in the country. This significant conservation success is attributed to the country's long-term commitment to preserving its natural environment, including maintaining over half of its land under forest cover. The increase in tiger numbers is the result of a collective effort involving the Royal Government of Bhutan, non-governmental organizations such as WWF-Bhutan and The Bhutan Tiger Center. These have all played a crucial role in monitoring and researching the tiger population, leading to new insights and the discovery of tigers in regions not previously known to host them. Globally, the tiger population has also seen a significant increase in recent years. As of 2023, the Global Tiger Forum estimates the population of wild tigers to be around 5,574, which is a 74% increase since 2010 when the population was at an all-time low of about 3,200 ...

The Holiday Season has a hooker worn out. My kids are off from school, and with my son home, I needed to spend all my extra time with each of them. I didn't write much, but I have an article for next week on Caturday as usual. I will work on one for the Pups. My next Cafe article will be about budget fast meals and what to stock in your pantry. I hope for the celebrity news to get juicy again. So much Taylor Swift/koven/reality stars news is everywhere. I will be back with my article, some serious and some light. Don't worry, we will keep this place going. We are here to stay. You all are a treasure in my life. Love to each one of you, and I mean everyone. 

                                   Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas! 

This week, I found a cute video to share. This holiday season is busier than normal, so I will post what I can on Caturdays to keep Kitty Corner at the manor open for business. What intelligent things do your cats do? I have one that opens doors and has figured out how to get to the treats for cats and dogs. I had to put a lock on the door, or else she would feed the pets treats like a benevolent treat goddess. 

Breed: American Shorthair is a breed, not a domestic mixed breed. These are purebred cats that are bred by breeders and have a strong, remarkable tabby pattern round faces and are silver and black. They do come in other colors but show cats are mostly the pattern and color of the cat above.  Tabby cats are not a specific breed but rather a description of their characteristic markings. The term "tabby" refers to a cat's coat pattern and has nothing to do with breed. The tabby pattern is the most common pattern seen in domestic cats and can appear in many different breeds with a surprising amount of variation. Tabbies can be brown, gray, orange, or even black, and their markings include stripes, spots, whorls, and bands. They typically have a "M"-shaped mark on their foreheads. There are five main tabby coat patterns:  Classic Tabby: The Classic Tabby has stripes on its face and head, with swirls of darker color on a lighter base throughout the body. These swirls ...