The cattery

For more than twenty years this has been a Ragdoll house. Not a row of pens. A house in Olympia, with grandchildren who visit, and cats who treat the furniture as theirs.

A kitten here learns the sound of the kettle, a backpack hitting the floor, someone calling from the other room. They are held early. They are never caged. They grow up underfoot, in the rooms the family actually uses, used to ordinary noise and to being picked up. By the time they leave at twelve weeks they already know what people are for.

We keep traditional pointed Ragdolls — the blue-eyed ones. Chocolate and lilac most of all, then seal and blue, and lynx when it turns up. Solids are not part of this program.

Some of the cat go to local TICA shows. Then they come home. The kittens are meant for the same kind of life they had here: underfoot, in the way, settled on whoever sits down first. The manner we want is the unhurried one — follows you from room to room, goes quiet when you sit.

They go with a 3-way vaccine, a microchip, and they are already spayed or neutered unless they are going as breeders. The breeding cats are DNA-tested for HCM. If something comes up after they are in your house, ask.

If that unhurried manner is what you have been looking for, say hello.