Cats in Prison

My cat Little Guy has been convicted (without evidence, I might add) of pooping in my neighbor's yard and not covering it up. He has also been accused of sitting on her old car. So now he is imprisoned on my enclosed front porch with his buddy Jude, who also could be a culprit. And because the summers in west central Florida have grown increasingly hotter more consistently in the last year or two, the enclosed porch is basically an oven. There's a ceiling fan, a box floor fan and a small table fan trying to create some semblance of coolness, but by late afternoon I might as well cook those cats in my oven at 300 degrees.

I have had outdoor cats my entire life and nowhere, except in this neighborhood, has it ever been a problem. You would think people would be happy to have my cats keep the rat and mouse population in check because, believe me, when I first moved here 10 years ago there were plenty of rats and mice, as evidenced by the many dead bodies laid at my doorstep.

I also understand my neighbor's wish not to have my cats poop in her yard. I get that. I hate it when people let their dogs poop and pee on my property. I hate it when people let their dogs run loose and they come onto my property and kill my cats. I hate it when people let their teenagers loose and they become bored and decide to rob, steal and vandalize.

I have to say the older I get, the more I would like to live far from human beings. Just me and my animals, free from human rules and idiosyncracies. I suppose, though, being a human being myself that eventually I would miss my species and want to have a human conversation and a shared dinner or two. But perhaps if I just lived far enough away from humans to put space between their wants and my wants, that would do. Then, at least, Little Guy could be pardoned and he could return to his free-spirited way of being.