Mrs. Damia, at last count, possessed 57 cats. These creatures and their counterpart inhabited Terrene House Sanctuary, which sprawled across 90 acres in a quiet corner of the countryside. Few visitors called, which pleased the cats to no end. Mrs. Damia felt much the same; she'd laugh herself mad if the whole world up and vanished. She employed a few servants to assist with maintenance, but they were a pittance and neither she nor the cats paid them any mind. The estate could have existed on another plane, an onion-skin layer of reality peeled back from the known. A black backstage unseen by any audience.

The population thrived within Terrene House's tall brick walls. The space was adequate to stretch all the supple legs. A peach orchard spread out north for when climbing proved necessary. East lay the old cattle barn to provide shelter when winter stole in to settle her bitter white skirts about the grounds. South was the duck pond, for observing fish and fowl. And there was Terrene House, for when the cats wished to keep their lady company or when the weather grew too wicked for even the barn's meager asylum.

It was a responsibility of the greatest degree to be in charge of so many, but Mrs. Damia carried out her duties without regret or complaint. When someone needed extra attention, she was there to give it. If someone needed a flea-dip, she was there with sponge and bucket. Without her, she knew, these miscreants would die. Without them, she would. It was an understated symbiosis, and Mrs. Damia could not be happier in the arrangement. She loved unquestioningly, from the peaks of silken ears to the tips of twitching tails. She loved the tiny pumping hearts and the walnut-sized brains like planets in orbit. She even loved the gastric bacteria that lived to keep the tiny figures performing at their peaks.

Today, like most, Mrs. Damia sat on the porch, rocking in her antique chair. She poured out a saucer of milk, the first of several, and waited to see who would arrive. She was not the least surprised to find Alabama slinking up the steps like the first rays of dawn.

'Hello there, Bama,'� she called. Bama winked, twitched her nose, then set to lapping. She was a bold little thing, if not overly burdened by intelligence.

Close after crept Maine and Vermont, who added their banded heads to opposing arcs of the plate. Sometimes all of New England strolled up in a pack. They palled around together, Connecticut and New Hampshire the undisputed leaders of their faction.

Here came Alaska in all her white-furred luxury. Her lake-blue eyes met Mrs. Damia's, who obediently filled the second saucer and pulled it to the side. Alaska preferred to drink alone.

D.C. refused to drink at all or even approach the porch. She sat on the cobbled walk and watched her compatriots pass before marching off for pleasures less pedestrian.

By eight o'clock, all who wished to drink had done so to their satisfaction. Full and fat, they lazed in the autumn sunbeams that slanted over the porch. Some made off for the orchard. Pennsylvania, a polydactyl tiger-striped, nipped at the leaves of a potted spider plant while Okie tracked the progress of a dragonfly with green and drowsy eyes. Idaho and Montana, twin American long-hairs, tucked down and purred.

'Where's my Minnesota?'� Mrs. Damia called, squinting through her glasses. 'There you are, precious. Come say hello.'� Minnesota licked his whiskers, stretched, then made his approach to the warmth of her lap.

In the distance, a streak of gray blazed along the path toward the pond. Illinois was the alpha male. A silent tom who spent most days hunting amongst the hedges, he had little time for visitation (unless it was of the conjugal sort with one of Terrene House's queens). Illinois had been with her these past eleven years and was a fine specimen in his balance of ferocity and grace.

Texas brought a mouse near cleaved in half up the steps and dropped it on the mat. Mrs. Damia praised his prowess and rubbed gently the scarred place where Illinois had torn off most of his left ear in battle for a mate. 'That's a good boy, my tubby Texas,'� she crooned, then folded the rodent remains into a napkin and tossed it in the trash.

Wyoming spit at the Dakotas, then hunched away when he saw the battle not worth losing (the Dakotas being litter twins, they often ganged up together). Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico displayed similar behavior with Colorado and Utah, who were brother and sister. It was all in fun, of course, until the Carolinas took it seriously and yowled and sprinted off. They were always so hot-tempered, Mrs. Damia observed.

Rhode Island limped up for an ear-scratching. The runt, he needed special care after nearly succumbing to pneumonia this November last. Rhode Island sneezed and her eyes ran with distemper. Mrs. Damia did not hold out much hope she would last the winter.

California romped through tall grasses near the garden, his pelt glistening like gold amongst the waving green blades. He took up with Iowa and Florida most often, but today he was alone (or so he thought ' the white tip of Oregon's tail swished among fallen leaves while awaiting his unwitting prey to amble nearer).

'Watch it, Cali,'� Mrs. Damia called. California blinked at his name. 'She'll jump you if you don't keep your wits, dear.'�

Around noon, Mrs. Damia toured the property. She did this daily before naptime to ensure her lovelies were well and happy. Leaning on her cane, she hobbled to the duck pond to glimpse Virginia pawing at the mirrored surface, head tilted. Delaware and Indiana chased one another up an elm and clung quivering to branches, eyes locked. Michigan and New York stalked away, miffed at missing out on milk that morning.

'Well, you should've been a bit faster. Ain't my fault your heads was born crippled!'�

In the barn, Louisiana, Arkansas, Tennessee, Mississippi, and Washington lay curled like asps in the golden rays of the October sun that dripped through the cracks between the boards. Georgia, not privy to the group setting, peered down from the loft with a bit of straw clinging to one ear. Ohio and Wisconsin were nowhere in sight, but Mrs. Damia knew they'd be hunting the pasture. Jersey, a yellow-eyed half-wildcat, lapped brown water from a rain pail near the door and Missouri's head tilted open in a yawn at her disinterest in the day.

That left Westy V who was laid up at the vet after her spaying (for medical reasons ' Mrs. Damia would never willingly deprive her lovelies their procreation right) and Kentucky who had been required by the same vet to stay inside for two weeks with a coon-bitten back paw. Thank God the filthy assailant had not been rabid. Not that Kenty seemed much to mind the special privileges of staying inside the house.

The seven eldest were the descendents of the original brood from Terrene House, progeny to the ones who'd hunted the grounds in her granddaddy's day. Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, Antarctica, America I and America II. These forefathers and mothers most often kept private league in the empty horse stall at the back of the barn. They were old, these seven, and had borne the others (save Kansas, who was a stray discovered half-drowned in a drainage ditch two summers before and Maryland who must have sneaked in some way or another, for she was far too wild to be a Terrene House original). Mrs. Damia peered through the slats of their stall and grinned in at them.

'Good day, Grandparents of Myth,'� she crooned, pointing her cane through the slats. 'I love you all very much.'�

The elders blinked at her. Africa yawned and went to sleep. Asia stretched her long round legs, turned about, and curled her tail around her.

In the orchard, Mrs. Damia picked a peach, leaning on her cane. It was a fine and lovely day. The peach glowed in the sun like a small, pink planet. She limped to a wrought iron bench at the edge of the trees and sat, licking juice from her fingers. She flung the pit into the brush, where it would one day grow into another tree upon which her lovelies could play.

The grandparents had followed her from the barn and their eyes tracked the progress of the thrown seed, but none moved to retrieve it. Such action was for younger, spryer creatures. Mrs. Damia commiserated; sometimes she felt just plumb tuckered out.

'You'd still follow an old lady when you think she's got a morsel,'� Mrs. Damia commented to the eldest living generation. 'You'd still ply me for treats, I dare say.'�

The elders did not reply; they merely sat in a row and watched their lady while the ruins of daylight sifted off.

One by one they came to her, their mother, their protector. When after an hour she did not move, they sniffed her ankles and climbed into her lap. Finding no comfortable position in the cold, they crept again to the barn where they could sleep until winter, when not even their combined ancient wisdom would keep them alive. They knew not of winter's coming and the change in weather she would carry. For all they knew, they would reign forever from their quiet little world as was their birthright. All that long autumn, subtracted of their mother's nurture but unmindful of it all the same, they slept the sleep of the proud and dreamed the dreams of the damned.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...