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Homes

Front Porch: A mouse wouldn't feel safe

By ELIZABETH BETTENDORF
Published February 18, 2005

Sue Riemer lives in a house of cats.

Big cats, little cats, the in-between kind that slink around your ankles chasing shadows.

Riemer loves the real kind of cat - she lays claim to about six at the moment, all rescued ragamuffins with names such as Obie and Geronimo and Skunk.

This summer, as a community project for her son's school, Berkeley Prep, the family hosted a parade of needy kittens from the National Humane Society, a job that required cuddling and caring for cats awaiting the right homes.

But the real story about Riemer and her cats has to do with her inanimate collection: knickknacks, sculpture, paintings, bowls, stained glass, stuffed and just plain silly.

All cats, of course.

All beloved.

All landmarks in a passion that started with her childhood in San Antonio, Texas, where her family had a collective soft spot for any animal in need.

The elegant Beach Park home she shares with her husband, local obstetrician-gynecologist Ira Riemer, is a showcase for her beloved assortment of cat trinkets. It begins with a shiny, black satin appliqued feline bought with money from her first big job after graduating from the University of Texas in the 1970s.

It ends with, well, it doesn't actually end, but the more recent additions crept in as 50th birthday gifts from best girlfriends at a surprise party that included a cat pinata. She can't bear to throw it away and stows it on the top shelf of her kitchen pantry. Other gifts: Cats wearing high heels and mink stoles and toting shopping bags parade across the window sill of her breakfast room.

Purrrfection.

With an artful eye and a sense of humor, Riemer displays her collection casually throughout the four-bedroom, 41/2-bath house she and Ira built four years ago.

Cat salt and pepper shakers, cat tic-tac-toe, coasters, cocktail stirrers, crystal, shot glasses. She has got cats shaped like nesting Russian dolls, pillows, plates and cookie jars. Cat teapots await a steeping of Darjeeling; her cat steppingstones call for a walk in the garden.

Cats, cats and more cats. In the wallpaper and rugs, on the night lights and wall switches, on the key pegs, the mailbox flag and toilet brush.

The elegant white Lenox china cats chasing butterflies and toting umbrellas, arrive compliments of her elderly mother, fuzzy on dates like birthdays, but tack-sharp about her daughter's passion.

"I've always had cat stuff, in fact I can't remember not having it," Riemer says.

All of this comes with a good laugh, naturally.

At herself.

In the master bathroom, a baggy nightshirt declares her: "Crazy Cat Lady."

In the den, the most telling signs: "Around this house, the cat's in charge," and "Husband and cat missing. Reward for cat."

The real cats dart in and out of a maze of miniature cat tepees and condos, blissfully chasing a red laser light that Sue occasionally aims their way.

"I'm like the Pied Piper, they follow me from room to room."

When she refers to her babies, she's talking about her teenage kids too - Devin and Rebecca - their pictures brightening walls and bookshelves, their gifts of crazy cat stuff mixed into her eclectic collection with love. Ask Riemer for a picture of herself and she can't find one. Just fistfuls of photos of her family and cats; she's the one behind the lens.

When she leaves the house, the cats watch from the windows, upstairs and down, their backs rounded in contentment, eyes wide, always watching.

After all, the cat wind socks and folksy signs in front yard tell the story. "They find me," Riemer explains. Whether she means her collection or her real cats, it doesn't matter.

"They either walk in or they've been gifted to me," she says. "Piecemeal. That's how they all come."

[Last modified February 17, 2005, 10:50:08]