I have lots of animal friends, too. I have a dog, Lucky, and three cats: Moon Pie, Mr. Peterman, and Ursula. You will find their photos below.

Lucky

You might have noticed a black dog (sniffing & barking) on this website. Well, his name is Lucky Star—Lucky for short. In May 2001, I found him at the Humane Society. He was very, very sick with canine kennel cough, which is kind of like a bad, bad cold. His temporary, stray–dog name was “Solomon.” Someone had found him running recklessly down Main Street in Springfield, Oregon.

A mix of chow and shar–pei and who–knows–what, Solomon could barely see because his eyelids were drooping so much. His eyes were very irritated—the lids were kind of scraping on his eyes—and he was crying profusely. Tears streamed down his furry black face. Solomon was $50. I wondered how someone could put a price on anyone. But I paid my $50 and got the most fantastic deal of my life, the best friend anybody could have. The Humane Society was wonderful.

When I adopted Solomon, they sent him to the Oregon State University veterinarian school in Portland. There, he got an “eye job.” His eyelids were lifted so that he could see. Solomon, now Lucky Star, was glad to leave his cage and come home with a person (me!) who fed him homemade chicken soup for a week.

The Humane Society of the United States, founded in 1954, helps and protects animals. You can find out more about the organization here.

Moon Pie

A young cat showed up outside my window in August 2004. He meowed a sad meow, over and over. At the time, my niece Jen was visiting from Michigan. We went outside to see what all of the meowing was about. A very bedraggled, very dirty, young Maine Coon Cat with matted fur came running to us. He looked tired and sick. Jen and I gave him something to eat, and later some water...I brushed his matted fur...all the while telling myself that I couldn’t possibly adopt another cat–I already had two cats and a dog, after all. So, the stray cat hung out on the porch for a week. In fact, he rarely budged from his chosen spot on the porch railing.

When I left to go to the store one day, the cat ran and jumped on the hood of my car. He spread himself across the windshield, as if to stop me. “Okay, this cat isn’t going to give up easily,” I thought to myself.

I posted FOUND CAT signs all over town with his picture and my phone number. But nobody claimed him. By then, of course, he had endeared himself to me. I took him to the vet and then brought him inside, where Lucky the dog greeted him like a long–lost friend. (The cats, Ursula and Mr. Peterman, were much more indifferent–well, jealous, actually!)

I named the cat Moon Pie, in honor of my grandmother, Lydia Stevens. When we were kids, my grandma made us “Moon Pies.” (Which, by the way, are nothing like the also–delicious chocolate/marshmallow/cookie called a Moon Pie.) My grandma’s Moon Pies were kind of like an apple pie that you fry in a skillet on the stove.

Would you like the recipe for Moon Pies? Click here.

Mr. Peterman

Mr. Peterman is the oldest of my three cats. He’s probably 8 or 9. My first sight of Mr. Peterman: I was looking out the kitchen window of the house I used to live in. I saw a family of raccoons (with several babies) perched on the roof, sun–bathing. Nearby, on the roof, a grey–and–white tabby cat sat still and calm. He was looking right at me. The next thing you know—he was sneaking into my house to eat my cat Mooftie’s food. (Mooftie had become my cat three years earlier–when she climbed a tree and jumped in my second–story window!) Anyway, I knew this striped tabby fellow didn’t have a home, so I let him get away with his eat–and–dash behavior for over a year. The day before I moved out of my house, my friend Mooftie crossed over. Sadly, she died of a disease called feline leukemia. At that point, I decide to adopt the mysterious grey–striped food snatcher. I named him Mr. Peterman, after “J. Peterman,” that man on Seinfeld who played Elaine’s silver–haired boss. Some people call him by his last name, “Peterman.” His closest friends call him “Petie.”

Ursula

I adopted Ursula, “Ursi” for short, from a woman here in Eugene who had a litter of colorful kittens. I chose the black kitten because Mooftie (my cat who had died) was black. Ursi was the kookiest kitten ever—the first day I brought her home she shot up the side of a 100–foot, ancient horse–chestnut tree in my front yard, climbing almost to the top in about 12 seconds. She then proceeded to climb out on a branch that dangled over a busy street! Ursi was having a blast, despite my jangled nerves. Ursi the Daredevil eventually quieted down—she is now pretty mellow. Well, except when there is a mouse around. She likes to watch TV, especially nature programs that feature lizards and birds.

Oh, one more thing. Ursi doesn’t meow like other cats. She prefers, instead, “ur.” “Ur” when she wants food. “Ur” when she wants water. “Ur...ur...ur” when she wants outside. I guess URsula was an appropriate name for her, huh?