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They are not my cats.
I know that regular readers of this newsletter (blog?, column?) frequently see some version of “my wife and her cats” or “my wife’s cats.” There is more than a little gray area in our cat situation, and that’s not even counting the gray on his tabby cat. It’s true that the tabby cat and the long-haired, black-and-white cat see me as their primary human, but the tortie cat is so attached to Trygve that he calls her his fur tumor.
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I am not a commander, just as “Lieutenant Dawn” is not a lieutenant. (I am adding this caveat after Trygve showed me a draft with his chosen title.) Trygve enjoys alliteration and Forrest Gump.
They are not my cats, but how we came to share our home with them says a lot about who my husband is. He is a combat veteran, but that didn’t harden him the way you might expect. It made him intolerant of unnecessary suffering in others, including animals. He will pull over to get the turtle all the way across the road and will brake for a gopher. He will get the bat out of the house without hurting it. He drapes toilet paper over the side of the tub so spiders can crawl out. He has helped more than one bird recover from a window collision.
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The tortie cat was from a litter of six kittens born to a feral cat living at the old lumberyard Trygve’s parents owned. Trygve’s youngest child was in North Dakota for the summer and wanted to save the kittens from a life of scrounging for food. It worked: One of them is now my husband’s fur tumor and the other five died within weeks of being “rescued.” Trygve stayed up all night on several occasions trying to save the next dying kitten. He saved Dakota, his tortie fur tumor and the moodiest of his three cats, by feeding her Pedialyte with a dropper. He adjusted the number of drops and time between doses until he found the rate she could handle without puking.
By the way, Trygve has written more about cat acquisition at this link [ [link removed] ].
Rambler, our long-haired, black-and-white (cow?, panda?) cat showed up in the backyard when he and Dakota were still kittens. They hissed at each other and then played together. We asked around the neighborhood and on social media, but no one claimed him. Trygve was gathering materials to build this new stray a suitable shelter when I relented and said to just bring him in the house. I didn’t need my husband up all night building an insulated, waterproof kitten mansion. You may think I am exaggerating, but he had brought out his level. It may be that pilots are obsessed with things being level. Or maybe it’s just my husband.
Trygve picked up his third cat, Rosie, in a bar. He was having a burger and a beverage when he heard a young woman tell the bartender that she needed a new home for her cat. He suggested that I would surely be able to find a good home for her sweet kitty. I’m sure he said it in a way that suggested I was some kind of crazy cat lady with a bunch of cat-loving friends. Not true. I do have a “Crazy Cat Lady” coffee mug, and Trygve did not buy it for me, but that does not mean they are my cats.
Every night, Rosie jumps on the bed as soon as she senses that Trygve is about to turn in for the night. She waits, her tail swishing, for that night’s “fuzzy blanket fight.” She pounces on his arm, bites his hand, and kicks her back legs against his forearm while he wrestles her around and growls that she will never be the fuzzy blanket fighting champion. He declares victory every time, but Rosie never bleeds at the end of the match.
Rosie also stalks Trygve as he gets dressed. She leaps onto his shoulder. He has talked of getting her a parrot outfit to complete his pirate costume for Halloween. When he bends to scoop the kitty litter, Rosie uses him as a springboard to jump onto the water heater. Recently, she used the same method to get over our backyard fence as Trygve picked up his tools. He had just spent hours cat-proofing the part of the fence where she had last escaped.
Rosie waits for Trygve to go to bed. Rambler waits for him to get up in the morning. He (Rambler) mews and leads the way to the brushing spot, looking back to mew and make sure his backup human is getting the hint. Trygve follows and says things like, “What’s the matter Rambler? Did Johnny fall in the well? Did the horses get out of the barn?” This ritual always ends with Trygve brushing Rambler and laughing at how the cat so obviously enjoys it.
Come to think of it, Trygve often laughs at things the cats do. He often laughs, period. He laughs most often at himself.
He is superb at making any piece of writing sound better. I’m sure he will edit this. He is an excellent tutor and homework helper in almost any subject. He is always there for his kids, helping them out and defusing their worries; sometimes with humor.
A typical text-message exchange with one of his daughters:
Daughter: DAD!! What is this? [photo of spot on skin]
Trygve: Not cancer.
Daughter: It appeared suddenly and has irregular edges and the color is weird and not the same at the edges!
Trygve: Let me look again… Still not cancer.
Daughter: WHAT IS IT?!!
Trygve: Mid-Atlantic bot fly. The larva will emerge in about two weeks.
Daughter: DAD!!
Trygve: Probably syphilis. Antibiotics should take care of it.
Daughter: DAD!!
Trygve: Not cancer. Take two aspirin and call your mother in the morning.
A vote for Trygve is a vote for a smart, funny, kindhearted representative in Congress, a leader who would rather suffer than see his constituents suffer. I know he can do the job, especially if it is sometimes like herding (his) cats.
Editor’s note: While Kelli and her cats are generally supportive of Trygve’s campaign, they have yet to begin addressing him as The Distinguished Gentleman from North Dakota, and he still has to be alert for ambushes while tying his boots.

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