Another Photo of Big Boy the Cat

Big Boy and Mr. Cole

Notice how large Big Boy looks compared to my husband’s feet. I wish I was brave enough to try photographing Big Boy with my Nikon. Then my neighbors who own him might think I’m stalking their cat. Is wanting to behold such feline glory one more time a form of stalking? If so, it’s a benign form of it.

Big Boy, a Glorious Cat

BB, aka Big Boy

A Maine Coon lives inside my phone. At least I dream that he does when I look at the wallpaper on my phone. When my husband noticed the picture, I told him that the cat will be my second husband.

While I was mostly teasing him with this claim, there is some truth to it. I had two cats pass away in their old age not long before I was married for the first time in my forties. I am not yet ready to open my heart to another cat, at least not on a full time basis.

In the meantime, I collect pictures of cats, the bigger and puffier the better. There’s something irresistible about a cat who is larger than a dozen small dog breeds. No perfectly tuned car engine can rival the purr of an overgrown house cat.

My daughter and I have lately visited a mammoth cat during our neighborhood walks. We call him BB, for Big Boy or Bowling Ball. He slinks from his porch to weave around our legs and roll before us.

I revel in these moments with BB, but I know is it not time yet to bring a cat home, to have a mountain of cat doze on me as I read myself to sleep.

Puff, A Mystic


I don’t know who owned the mystic I’d borrow and call Puff. His seasonal groomings told me he belonged to someone else. I once spotted him strolling through a neighborhood alley and thought that a man working on a truck called him Larry. Maybe that man was talking to another man offstage from the alley. Then again, Puff was a man’s man. He could have owned the name Larry easily.

Puff had enormous paws that could cover most of the palm of my hand. His gaze could hypnotize me into giving him Fancy Feast and a nap on my pillow or couch. My daughter and I loved nothing more than having him stay the night, and we’d fall asleep to the sound of his steady purr.

By the time my daughter started school, Puff’s visits began to dwindle. We’d take walks through the neighborhood to see if he’d become the back door man for another family. I took the photo above during one of his last visits, and in it he seems to be telling me that he’s found another woman but knows he’s made his mark on me.

My daughter and I still reminiscence about Puff. I hope he disappeared because he and his mysterious owner moved away.

He’d be an old man by now, but I’m sure he’s still full of love, charisma and machismo.

Puff in his rusty summer glory