Living with six orange cats is less like owning pets and more like managing a small, chaotic theater troupe that forgot to rehearse and possibly forgot their lines, their purpose, and occasionally their own names. I call them my pumpkin patch — not only because they’re all gloriously orange, round, and seasonal-looking, but because, like real pumpkins, they are big, dramatic, and frequently hollow inside.
Orange cats have a reputation. People say they are dorky. Clumsy. Lovable troublemakers with a single shared brain cell that rotates between them like a timeshare. I used to think this was an exaggeration. Then I acquired six. Now I understand that the rumors were not only true, they were conservative estimates.
Individually, each of my cats is convinced he is a majestic predator, a sleek panther of the wild. Collectively, they resemble a committee that cannot agree on how doors work. I’ve watched one of them attempt to stalk a dust mote for ten minutes, only to fall off the couch at the climax of the hunt. Another once hissed at his own reflection, then fled in terror, presumably from the handsome stranger who looked exactly like him.
Their troublemaking is never malicious. It’s accidental performance art. One opens cabinets. Another gets stuck inside. A third screams about being abandoned while I’m in the same room. The fourth steals bread. The fifth supervises. The sixth watches from a high surface like a small orange gargoyle silently judging us all.
They are big cats too. Solid. Pumpkin-bodied. When they sit, they spread. When they lie down, they occupy entire furniture ecosystems. When they run, they sound like someone gently rolling bowling balls down a hallway. And yes — the phrase “often hollow” is affectionate truth. Sometimes you look into their eyes and see deep love. Other times you see a loading screen.
And here’s the part that surprises most people: beneath all the chaos and dorkiness, they are fiercely clingy and loyal. Unlike other cats who treat affection like an optional subscription, my pumpkin patch demands it. They follow me from room to room, curl up on my keyboard while I work, and have been known to insist on sleeping between me and the edge of the bed like tiny orange security blankets. If loyalty could be measured in purrs, cuddles, and shared sunbeams, my pumpkin patch would be off the charts.
But here’s the secret: the stigma is unfair. Yes, orange cats are dorky. Yes, they are chaotic. Yes, their decision-making process appears to involve shaking a Magic 8 Ball. But they are also the warmest, funniest, most affectionate little gremlins imaginable. They love loudly. They cuddle aggressively. They purr like faulty lawnmowers. They greet you like you’ve returned from a five-year sea voyage every time you come home.
My pumpkin patch has caused me to ask “What are you doing?” at least forty times a day. But they’ve also filled my home with laughter, softness, and the comforting knowledge that no matter how weird life gets, at least I am not the cat who fell into the laundry basket and forgot how to exit.
So here’s to orange cats — the dorky troublemakers, the hollow pumpkins, the lovable chaos engines. May their one shared brain cell stay in rotation, may their antics remain mostly harmless, and may they never, ever discover how to open the refrigerator.
Because honestly, I’m not ready for that level of teamwork.
FrogDiva Thoughts 