As I am certain you have always expected, Loretta Young is an icon for our household’s impressionable young pusses: Hermione, Claudja, and Dylis.
The two litter-mates are now seasoned five-year olds that love a Christmas only Dudley could offer. It goes without adding: the’d much prefer a food dish that could only be maintained by Professor Wutheridge.
On the other paw, Dylis is the product of an unholy assignation of our outdoor calico molly and a spry roving tom, surely sewing his oats. While both mother and daughter sleep under our house, the father marks his territory somewhere down the road.
As Marklewood is in the Hinterlands of Outer Raleigh, appropriate suitors for the naïve Dylis are rare. Her father, meanwhile meows with a Roger Miller-esque caterwaul. With my beloved’s tutelage, Dylis’s polite demeanor conceals well the behavior of a four month old kitten.
I fully expect her to soon greet us with a confident “mjau”, albeit with a genteel drawl.
As you might’ve predicted the late Miss Young was always a favorite of ours. I stretched my arm deep into my cache of musings and tried my hardest to tie a cat tale with her rather technicolor portrait.
Don’t you know it? Her fondness was for dogs: miniature poodles, French pugs, and Spaniels of many breeds. I suspect there were always a few dubious birds who sought refuge and a “Safe Cage” from their stalkers.
(Photograph of Loretta Young by the legendary Horst P. Horst, 1941.)