New Orleans is a Crazy Cat Lady…

New Orleans is a crazy cat lady… and we are her cats.

Some of us were born here, and some of us are adopted. Some are misfits who wandered in and never left.

We are instinctive cats, creative cats, cats who don’t like to be fenced in. Other places fence us in.

Some think we are unruly, fighting in the alleys at night, coming home late and making noise. And we do that sometimes.

We also stretch in the sun, listen to a little jazz and stare at the lazy river, purring. We follow the umbrellas and dance like cats do. We gather on the porch sometimes, just enjoying the Brees in fall. We call to one another across the streets, because we recognize other cats when we see them.

We are a nation of pedigrees, strays, calicos, tabbies… all colors and styles of cat collect here. We had a Tom cat for a while. He owned the football team. Man, we miss that old cat.

Anyone will tell you, we NOLA cats are our own breed. We fight and disagree; drink the poison water and thrive. We chase rats and they always get away. We’re not always a pretty bunch, and we’re no strangers to hard times; but we’re where we belong, so we stick together.

We hiss and scratch with cat-like precision and outrageous style when we get kicked around… ask Roger Goodell. He hates cats.

The crazy cat lady loves us one and all. Her name is NOLA, and she’s three hundred years old. Her accent can hurt your ears, but she’s the best cook in the world and welcomes every stranger with a kiss. She throws jewels on the trees so we can live in beauty, always, and she keeps the music turned up loud, because she’s a little hard of hearing. She keeps an umbrella handy, in case someone dies and there’a a parade.

Old NOLA-the-Cat-Lady knows how to love, how to welcome a guest, and she spoils her cats. We are one breed, after all. Nothing unites us like our disdain of inferior animals – like a Ram. Or a falcon. An Eagle, perhaps. The blind Zebras are dangerous, and super-shady.

Strangely, there is one neighborhood GOAT we do love. He wears a number nine, probably in a show of support for us cats, to honor each of our nine lives. When we see the GOAT, we pull together, put our tails up in the air and arch our backs. We keep our chins up and puff out our chests, as he asked us to do.

NOLA cats don’t meow… we make a strange noise that sounds like… WHODAT!

The Crazy Cat Lady taught us that.