Belly
And Belly makes four.

Rounding out the family is this one, the yard panther, “killer of the night.” Belly was discovered (literally) in the woodpile one winter’s evening back at least six or maybe even seven years ago. He was abandoned by the flophouse pussycats that populated the no man’s land between our old cottage acre and the Mayor’s home. The Mayor is a kindly old man in our neighborhood with a terrible fear of snakes which led to an over indulgence in cats. Anyway, there was this pitiful little furball knock knock knockin’ on Heaven’s door right outside our little cottage. Of course he hit the jackpot; our house is now recognized as the sanctuary for ill-fated animals.

He was nurtured with an eye dropper, swelling up to just a rock hard belly with legs--that’s how he got the name. One afternoon, I had to rescue his little butt from itself; he was pitiful in his own poo, flailing around helpless and moaning. I’ve now officially cleaned everyone’s butt in this house. Belly wasn’t the last but he may have been the worst.

But Belly grew up fairly normal considering the obvious inbreed circumstances he came from. He’s been guessed to be a Maine Coon Cat because he’s large and handsome—but I know he’s all country bumpkin. Still, he’s proved very tolerant of the little one and thinks he’s just another dog like Chester. All in all, he’s really been about all you could want from a cat, except when he wants to sleep right on my chest when I’m watchin’ a football game.

Yes, Belly has a voice too, high pitched and neurotic with severe insecurity issues.