Facebook Group ‘Is This Your Cat?’ Exceeds Town Population

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Act I: The Porch That Launched a Thousand Posts

On a muggy Monday morning, Eugene “Boot” Barnes set his battered coffee mug on the paint-flaking porch rail and squinted across Main Street. “Clovis, you see this?” Boot pointed with two fingers – calloused, twitchy – toward a squat tabby circling the hydrangeas. “That’s the fourth one this week. Different stripe. I counted.”

Clovis Strickland, perched on the creaking swing, thumbed through his phone, thumbs moving slow. “Could be the same cat, Boot. They do look a mite similar after you been up all night chasing raccoons off the shed.” He nodded at the animal, which paused to yawn, exposing teeth far too white for a town this dusty.

Boot’s brow furrowed. “Nope. This one’s got the left ear clipped. TNR. That’s ‘Trap-Neuter-Release’ – Sonny Morales taught me that. Said it’s for population control, but from where I sit, the population’s controlling us.”

Across the porch, Mabel Dean Ashcroft, queen of the local gossip vine and admin of every Facebook group from “Yard Sale Yarns” to “What’s That Noise on 127?” appeared with a box of Lemon Dream bars. “Y’all see my post this morning? ‘Is This Your Cat?’ Thirty-seven new comments by 8:10. I’m telling you, it’s a movement.”

Clovis sniffed. “Movement’s right. I had to delete two posts – both about the same orange tom but with two different names. Folks just claiming cats left and right. Might be time for some official action.”

Boot stood, wiped crumbs from his mustache, and nodded at Daisy the hound, who’d watched the cat parade with stoic resignation. “Well, if we’re having a cat census, Daisy’s the only one I trust to tell the truth. Don’t need no more committees. Last time we formed a committee, we ended up with three fire hydrants and a goat on the payroll.”

Mabel Dean grinned, notepad in hand. “Well, this time it’s digital. I say we organize. There’s order to be found – even in the fur.” She snapped a photo of the tabby. “#IsThisYourCat?”

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Act II: Diner Dialogue – Eggs Over Easy, Cats Over Everything

At the Crossroads Diner, the morning regulars had reached consensus: cats outnumbered biscuits, and possibly people. Trixie Jo Bartlett poured coffee, pausing to adjust her ponytail. “Sheriff Peeler, you ever get so many calls about cats before?”

Sheriff Peeler, badge gleaming, sipped with the solemnity of a man on his third refill. “Can’t say I have, Trixie Jo. I did try to chase a Siamese outta the evidence locker last week. Left pawprints all over my citation book. No ID, of course.”

“Maybe we need licenses,” suggested Clovis, glancing at the posted group photo of the breakfast crowd. “If we can tag deer, we can tag a few tabbies.”

Shelley Fawn Wexler, working her crossword in the corner booth, glanced up. “What’s the point of a license if the cat ignores you anyway? Last I checked, nobody owned Mr. Tux out by the old water tower, but everyone leaves him food.”

RT Mullins, grinning, flicked a sugar packet at Boot. “Better question is: if you post a cat in the Facebook group and nobody claims it, does it even exist?”

Tiffany Annette Roark, scrolling her phone, piped in. “Well, my Aunt Lurleen tagged me in a photo of a ginger tabby that I’m pretty sure is her own cat – she just wanted to start something with next-door Miss Maggie Sue. Some folks just like to stir the pot.”

The bell over the diner door jingled as Pastor Arnold Peeler entered, hat in hand. “Heard tell we’re debating cat theology today? I always said if cats could talk, they’d still ignore you. All we can do is be hospitable.”

The group laughed as Daisy the hound padded in, hoping for a dropped biscuit. Boot nodded approvingly at Daisy’s dignity. “Maybe we oughta put Daisy in charge of the Facebook group. She’s got more sense than all of us.”

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Act III: The Great Cat Census – A Meeting at Town Hall

The fluorescent lights in the Sequatchie Crossing Town Hall buzzed with authority. Mabel Dean had called an emergency meeting – open to all, especially anyone with opinions about cats. The folding chairs filled quickly.

At the head table, Boot presided, with Clovis acting as sergeant-at-arms (meaning he held the gavel and occasionally whacked it to quiet things down). Sheriff Peeler, notebook ready, sat beside Trixie Jo Bartlett, who was recording attendance. Even Dr. Neil Cowgill, the town’s only vet and notorious skeptic, arrived – carrying a mug labeled “Ask Me About Worming.”

Mabel Dean tapped the mic. “Alright, we’re calling to order the first annual – possibly monthly – Sequatchie Cat Census. Goal: match every posted cat to an owner, a feeder, or a well-wisher. Questions?”

Chester Ray Blevins, who ran the print shop, waved a paw-shaped sign. “We could issue wanted posters. Print ‘Em in color. Give the cats names if they ain’t got one.”

Lurleen Davenport stood, arms crossed. “Some of those cats are spiritual creatures – belong to the Lord and nobody else. You try to tag ‘em, you’ll end up blessed or scratched, your pick.”

Tiffany Annette Roark, phone aloft, projected a slideshow of “Top Ten Mystery Cats of Sequatchie.” “Anyone wanna claim this fluffy beast? Shows up at my porch twice a week, sometimes brings a frog.”

Doug “Doughboy” Teeter, late as usual, carried a cardboard box. “Found this one in the parking lot. Anybody missing a cat? Or a box?”

Daisy, on official comfort animal duty, sniffed the box but offered no comment.

Pastor Arnold raised a hand. “I propose we pray for clarity. Or at least for the ability to keep count. Amen.”

Mabel Dean, undaunted, handed out clipboards and catnip mice. “Let’s get to work. There are more cats than people on Main Street, and I aim to prove it.”

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Act IV: Fieldwork – Door Knocking, Porch Sitting, Cat Spotting

With official census forms in hand, the citizens fanned out. Boot and Clovis took Elm Street, notorious for its alleys and ancient camellias, prime cat territory.

Clovis scribbled. “That’s the third calico, Boot. You sure they’re not rotating?”

Boot crouched, squinting. “Count the tails. Some got kinks. That’s how you tell.”

On Magnolia Lane, Trixie Jo and Shelley Fawn compared notes. “This tuxedo’s got a limp,” Trixie observed. “Mabel Dean calls him Solomon. I call him Trouble.”

Shelley marked her sheet. “He’s registered in three houses. Eats at my place, sleeps on the Johnson’s porch, and plays piano keys on Lurleen’s window at night.”

At the old Methodist church, Sister Lila Mae “Hallelujah” Pruitt led a prayer circle for the lost and the wandering – human and feline. “May these creatures find safe passage, soft landings, and homes, if not here, then in the next life.”

Doug “Doughboy” Teeter encountered Sonny Morales beside the hardware store, both regarding a long-haired black cat curled on a stack of feed bags. Sonny nodded, “That’s Midnight. Don’t bother – she’s got fans, not owners.”

Doug nodded solemnly. “Kinda like me.”

Back on Main, Tiffany and RT compared photos on their phones, realizing they’d both posted the same orange tom under different names. “Great minds,” RT said, grinning.

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Act V: The Facebook Group Meltdown – Tag Wars Begin

That night, the digital frontier lit up: the “Is This Your Cat?” Facebook group exploded with new photos, tag notifications, and a bewildering array of feline aliases. The town’s population: 2,411. Group members: 2,417, counting out-of-town relatives, former residents, and at least six parody accounts for “Mayor Mittens.”

Mabel Dean, as admin, posted new guidelines:

1. No posting the same cat more than once per day.

2. Don’t claim cats that clearly live three doors down.

3. If you start a rumor about a ‘cat thief,’ provide evidence or at least a good story.

Sheriff Peeler posted an official warning: “Please do not attempt to detain, capture, or interrogate cats. Law enforcement is not responsible for claw marks.”

Clovis, seeing the drama, commented: “If a cat is in your yard, it’s probably just visiting. If it eats your food, it’s still visiting. If it moves in, you don’t own it – you rent its attention.”

Arguments flared. Maggie Sue Dillard accused Evelyn Grace Tipton of “fostering feline dependency.” Evelyn posted a counter-photo of “her” tabby sunbathing in five different yards, with time stamps.

Alyssa Crenshaw, master of GIFs, unleashed a barrage of dancing cats and popcorn memes.

By midnight, Mabel Dean suspended comments “for everyone’s spiritual well-being and battery life.”

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Act VI: Mediation at the Church – Fur Flies in Fellowship Hall

The next morning, tempers remained frayed. Pastor Arnold, sensing a spiritual crisis, called an emergency Cat Mediation Breakfast in Fellowship Hall. The potluck table groaned under hash brown casseroles, cinnamon rolls, and three kinds of deviled eggs – plus a suspiciously large platter of tuna salad.

Boot addressed the assembly. “Folks, we can’t let the cats divide us. Not when there’s bigger issues. Like potholes. And that squirrel who keeps shorting out the Christmas lights.”

Lurleen shot back, “Potholes don’t pee on my porch.”

Clovis intervened. “Let’s try a different approach. Everybody with a porch cat, raise your hand.”

Every hand went up, except Daisy’s, who was busy eyeing the tuna.

Trixie Jo spoke: “If we all claim the same cats, maybe they claim us. Maybe we’re the communal caretakers. It’s like time-sharing, but with fur.”

Dr. Cowgill, the vet, offered wisdom: “Best thing you can do is feed ‘em, fix ‘em, and let ‘em be. Cats are liminal creatures – half wild, half home. That’s why they fit in here.”

Sister Lila Mae declared, “Maybe the Lord sent the cats to teach us something: share what you have, mind your own business, and nap in the sunshine.”

Peace returned, briefly, as the cinnamon rolls disappeared.

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Act VII: Cat Logic – Bureaucracy Goes Feral

The Sequatchie Town Council, never to be outdone, drafted an official proclamation:

WHEREAS,
The population of local cats now exceeds that of registered humans;
AND WHEREAS,
Ownership is a concept more honored in the breach than the observance;
THEREFORE BE IT RESOLVED:
A) Cats may reside wherever they are comfortable.
B) Each porch shall be recognized as a temporary sanctuary.
C) No more than three posts per cat, per week, on official Facebook channels.
D) All disputes will be settled at potlucks.

Chester Ray Blevins, printing commemorative certificates, added a flourish: “In recognition of service to the community, this certifies that [INSERT CAT NAME HERE] is hereby granted all rights and privileges of unofficial town resident.”

Boot, pen in hand, filled out a certificate for “Daisy.” Clovis added “Sir Whiskers” and “The Ghost of Morris.” Mabel Dean submitted “Mystery Meow,” a shadowy figure never seen in daylight.

Sheriff Peeler, catching up on paperwork, stamped each one with a paw-print ink pad.

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Act VIII: The Cat Parade – Sequatchie’s Furriest Festival

As July’s heat broke, the town organized the inaugural Cat Parade. The route ran from the courthouse steps, past Crossroads Diner, around Fellowship Hall, and back to Main.
RT Mullins, self-appointed emcee, announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, felines and otherwise, welcome to Sequatchie’s first Parade of Non-Possessive Cat Guardians!”

Children marched, each leading a cardboard cutout or a plush stand-in, since the real cats refused to cooperate, melting into shrubs or posing aloofly on windowsills.

Trixie Jo handed out “Not My Cat But I Feed It” ribbons. Clovis carried Daisy, who wore a sheriff’s badge and seemed only mildly offended.

Sister Lila Mae rode atop the church float, a throne fashioned from hay bales and plastic lilies, waving her Bible and blessing each contingent.

Mabel Dean snapped photos for the group page, determined to tag every human, every cat, and every sandwich sold by the Boy Scouts.

Sonny Morales played accordion on the back of a pickup, joined by Shelley Fawn’s impromptu chorus. Maggie Sue and Evelyn Grace called a truce, joining forces to distribute free kibble.

Sheriff Peeler watched from the reviewing stand, hat tipped, finally at peace with a world that defied classification.

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Act IX: Nightfall – Every Porch, Every Cat, Everyone Accounted For

As evening settled, the parade route quieted, and lights blinked on across porches and stoops. Boot and Clovis sat once more beneath the porch fan, counting not cats but stars.

“Clovis,” Boot mused, “you think the world outside Sequatchie Crossing gets this worked up over things don’t belong to anybody?”

Clovis shrugged. “Maybe they just don’t know it yet. Town’s only as strong as the stories it tells – and the things it shares. Sometimes that’s a cat.”

Daisy, belly full, stretched out and gave a single, profound sigh.

Across the street, Mabel Dean posted the final photo of the day: a blur of tabby, orange, and calico tails, all curled up on the library steps. Caption: “Is This Your Cat? Maybe. Is It Ours? Definitely.”

Somewhere, the mayor’s parody account posted a proclamation:
“Henceforth, all who feed a cat in Sequatchie Crossing are mayors, in spirit if not in ordinance.”

Laughter echoed online and off.

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Epilogue: The Group Grows – And So Do the Stories

Months passed. The “Is This Your Cat?” group topped 3,000 members – twice the town’s population. Outsiders joined, lured by photos of sunlit porches, cats atop mailboxes, and the gentle debates of people who cared too much and not enough, in perfect balance.

Boot, Clovis, Mabel Dean, and Daisy presided over the ever-growing legend of Sequatchie’s communal cats. Certificates were printed, arguments settled (sometimes), and a new tradition took root: “Lost or Found, Every Cat’s a Story.”

In Sequatchie Crossing, ownership was always negotiable. But belonging? That was guaranteed – fur, claws, and all.

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Key Takeaways:

• In Sequatchie Crossing, cats are neither wholly owned nor entirely wild; they are community creatures, claimed and unclaimed at once.

• Attempts to bring order – digital or bureaucratic – usually backfire into gentle chaos.

• The town’s strength lies in its willingness to claim, care for, and occasionally argue about that which can never be truly possessed.

• Community is forged not just in consensus, but in good-natured disagreement – and sometimes, in sharing a porch with a stranger, four-legged or otherwise.

At Sequatchie Crossing, we tell the stories of Sequatchie Crossing.

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