I can remember having cats my whole life. There was a brief period while moving to Alberta where I was without one. Once my son was born and toddling about, it seemed like a good idea to have cats again with whom he could play and cohabit. Both he and I currently have cats in our lives as a natural part of the family – or a “kitten pile” as Keri and I call it.

Animals are a part of childhood, considering that I come from a farm environment. Taking care of a young child, as my son once was, is comparable to the care of a small animal. They need simple things and don’t really know much outside of their world with you. I’ve had other pets in the past, again coming from a farm. We had dogs, which I kind of saw as Dad’s pets. The dog would be out in the field chasing around, while I’d be at the main farm dealing with the chickens, pigs, horses, and sometime cattle. Sometimes individual farm animals needed special care and would become pets. I once took care of a hurt bird over a spring season until its wing was better and it could fly away. On the farm cats and dogs aren’t eaten, of course, but pretty much everything else is, even if you do something like give it a name and a hug.

Everyone in my smallish family has pets – three dogs and seven cats altogether. My son was the last one to gain a cat named Tesla. Tesla came from a co-worker who was moving out of Lethbridge. My self-adopted brother still has two street cats from Taiwan. He originally brought four back with him. That’s how much you end up loving them: you’ll bring them across borders and oceans. He has shown me pictures of his little darling cats, half-alive, pulled from the trash at the side of the road. One kitten was found yowling in the middle of a rice field. One of the surviving cats keeps a sentry post at the door of his toddler’s room every night.

My “self-adopted” brother credits a childhood dog with raising him, which is a nice coincidence since I consider myself to have been raised by cats. Principally, a cat named Patches, who was obviously a calico and was born when I was six or seven years old. She was always happy and cheerful to see me or anyone really. Quite often I could meet her trotting out of the bush in remote corners of the farm. She would meow hello and come right up to rub and purr and then carry on to . . . whatever’s to be done out in the sticks by a cat.

My male cats are geezers for cats, 16 or 17 years old. The oldest cat I knew growing up made it past 16 years, so I’ve had these boys longer than any other. I am eternally grateful to put up with their fussy, annoying, badly-timed personalities. Otherwise, I guess it’s just us and the dust.

Reinhardt lives in Boyle Street with his wife, Keri Breckenridge.