Glamping with cats at Purradise Springs in Florida 

FORT WHITE, Florida - All was quiet at Purradise Springs when a disruptive noise ripped through the rural retreat, rousing the glampers from their slumber. Someone had opened a can of food.

A half-dozen cats responded to what they thought was the call to chow, leaping off the bed and furniture in Purrt No. 3 to investigate. They sniffed at the contents: black beans, not stinky fish. Unimpressed, they skulked off and returned to sleep.

As the old hospitality adage goes: You’re in their home, so be a good guest. At Purradise Springs, that means making nice with the roughly 130 rescues who reside at the cat sanctuary and, often, inside the tents. When not cohabitating in the Purrts, dens of luxury with soft beds and squishy couches, the cats prowl the property, blending into the landscape like lions in the Serengeti. Eyes aglow, they see you before you see them.

“The main thing is the cats,” said Thom Howard, 51, who owns and runs the property with his wife, Denise, 51. “We want to make sure they’re well-cared for and loved.”

“After that, it’s the guests,” he added.

From dumping ground to kitty theme park

Cavorting with rescue cats on holiday is unusual but not unheard-of.

Travelers can sip lattes with cats in cafes around the world or book a sleepover with feline residents at Best Friends Animal Society’s Roadhouse and Mercantile in Kanab, Utah. A few Airbnb listings offer accommodations on sanctuaries, such as a farmhouse at the Furball Farm Cat Sanctuary in Minnesota and campsites at Misfit Mountain in North Carolina.

Yet, Purradise Springs is unique for the sheer quantity of cats.

Just past the gate with the “Welcome to Purradise Springs” and “Proceed with caution” sign, Thom, dressed in a Jacksonville Jaguars sweatshirt, and a scrum of multicolored and patterned cats were waiting to check in the arrivals on a recent December weekend.

A few of the felines were resting in the tawny grass, motionless except for a slight flick of the tail. Others were supercharged.

“Watch out behind you,” Thom warned, as a cat shot past us. “That’s Monkey Boy.”

Before moving to Fort White nearly four years ago, the avid rescuers shared their 2,600-square-foot water-view home in Jacksonville with upward of 75 cats. One room, Denise recalled, was filled with more than 20 kittens.

When the pair decided to take their nonprofit cat operation in a new direction, a “glamping cat sanctuary” was not on their vision board. They originally considered opening a cat cafe with food trucks, but the plan fizzled out because of financial restraints and regulatory headaches. They almost purchased a defunct gator farm near Gainesville, about 30 miles southeast of Fort White, where guests could catch catfish in the concrete pens previously inhabited by the state’s official reptile.

“We could grow our own cat food,” Denise said.

The deal fell through, and the quest continued.

They eventually bought a nine-acre parcel near Ichetucknee Springs State Park, a rollicking spot for tubing, paddleboarding and other watersports. Previous owners left behind an assortment of dilapidated buildings and piles of junk - freestanding sinks, PVC pipes, a stripper pole - a veritable amusement park for outdoor cats. Columbia County’s animal code does not limit the number of feline inhabitants, though the couple set a self-imposed maximum of 150.

“When you come to Purradise, ” Thom said, “you’re going to see cats enjoying their best free life.”

Over Memorial Day weekend in 2021, the Howards started renting three tents, with air mattresses and air conditioning in only one. People who were often drowsy after a day of bobbing in the springs didn’t seem to mind the heat - or the cats crashing in their sleeping quarters.

“You’re going in and out of your tent,” Thom said, “and they’re going in and out of the tents.”

The owners upgraded all three to higher-quality canvas shelters with real beds (two doubles or a king), colorful throw rugs, trunks that double as cat-proof food storage, couches, AC units and space heaters that, on chilly evenings, draw cats like moths to a porch light.

Earlier this month, the Howards, who lost several structures to recent hurricanes, replaced the tents. The old ones, they said, were looking a little tired, worn down by the Florida elements and the cats’ mountaineering expeditions.

“Monkey had been climbing on them regularly,” Denise said. “There were a lot of claw marks.”

Every rescue has a story

The Howards are honest and self-deprecating about the partially unkempt state of their retreat. On the Airbnb profile, they describe it as “a work in progress and plenty of room for improvement … a great place to film that postapocalyptic vacation video. Or documentary about crazy cat people.”

The tents are cozy and pleasantly furnished, but there are no cooking facilities beyond the communal fire ring. People who have never spent significant time in an animal shelter might wrinkle their noses at the Purrapy Lodge, home of roughly 50 indoor cats. The house contains two bathrooms, plus the kitten room, the infirmary/hospice, the couple’s private domain and a half-dozen cat litter boxes the size of kiddie pools.

“We were expecting the camping experience, but it was a little bit glamping,” said Michelle December, 35, who was visiting with her fiancé, Jared Freeman. “We had a heater!”

The owners are equally frank about their preferred type of guest. Cat fanciers over the age of 18 are welcome; dogs, obviously, are not. People suffering from ailurophobia or allergies should look elsewhere. The same goes for anyone who can’t stomach cat pee or vomit or will shatter if scratched.

As a longtime pet sitter and rescue center volunteer, an animal takeover is a dream realized. I wanted my Purrt to be the cool cat hangout run by the honorary cat lady. They could have my bed, my pillow, my blankets, and sleep on my chest, feet and hair.

However, I heeded Thom’s warnings about the “spicier” residents, Tig-Tig and Ginger, a floofy, apricot-colored cat whose caretaker died of the coronavirus.

“If she holds you hostage,” Denise said of Ginger, “let us know.”

Most of the socialized cats fall somewhere on the friendly spectrum. Pearl, one of the lodge cats, occupies an extreme end. She clung to me like a fox stole while I brushed my teeth. Sylvestra, who is deaf, screams like a macaw when she wants to be petted. The Mayor is as suave as a politician, fawning over you as if you are his favorite guest. Alas, he sleeps around - I saw him ducking into Purrts 1, 2 and 3.

Incredibly, the Howards remember all of the cats’ names and histories. As we strolled Purrt City and the adjoining areas, they shared some of the more harrowing and heroic adventures that have occurred on the sanctuary grounds.

Cookie Puss, Thom told us, survived a snake bite by an eastern diamondback rattlesnake. Gemini evaded the clutches of a coyote. Lulu, fleeing a pack of dogs, spent four days perched in a tree.

“We do inventory regularly,” said Denise, whose goal is to find more traditional homes for the cats. About 40 have been adopted this year, including several by guests. In fact, the Howards will waive the adoption fee for approved overnighters, who pay from $88 a night.

In Star Field, a constellation-gazing pasture, Cricket scaled a tall wood post and ate Thom’s gift to the crows. (The black birds can be a natural deterrent against raptors.)

“You’re eating my hazelnuts!” he hollered at the genuine cat burglar, who ignored his entreaties and snacked away.

Entertaining your hosts

The main activities, unsurprisingly, involve cats. You can sit by the fire or swing in the hammock, with cats. Explore the property, with cats. Nap in your tent, with cats. Accompany Thom and Denise on their daily rounds, with cats.

In the early afternoon, the couple topped off the multiple feeding stations with dry food, checking on the different colonies. The following morning, they laid out a line of paper plates on the lodge floor, placing one can per setting. The cats hovered like impatient brunchers waiting for the buffet to open.

After mealtime, Thom pulled out a handmade cat toy - bamboo stick, string, plush mouse wearing a bandit mask and striped shirt - and spun around in circles, kindling the cats’ predatory instincts.

“Caught me an Alabama catfish. Woo-hoo!” he said, as Sassy tried to abscond with the prize. “Can I have it back, please?”

The first year, only a few cats would sleep in the tents with guests. The couple worried they might have to bribe them to cuddle.

“It took awhile to get some of the cats comfortable with the idea,” Denise said.

That’s no longer an issue. Thom said anywhere from two to 10 cats will curl up in each Purrt, though the felines you fall asleep with might not be the same ones you wake up with.

When December and Freeman returned from a local bar, they found two cats in their bed. “The tabby was curled up right by my pillow,” December said. They gained two more sometime in the night.

On my first evening, I hosted four cats on my twin, plus two - The Mayor and the fearsome Ginger - on the opposite bed. The following night, I was the only guest, so I moved to a tent with a king-size bed, which lured them in like catnip.

I had seven cats during the evening shift, which lasted until early morning. They commandeered the folded extra blanket on the trunk and my tote, the bed and my coat.

En route to the bathroom, I bumped into Thom. He takes on the role of security guard after dark, keeping a lookout for predators on 18 motion-activated video cameras strung up throughout the property.

“I know they’re out there,” he said, turning toward the dark forest. “I feel like they’re going to come back.”

Feral dogs and coyotes roam these parts. Both species have slipped into the sanctuary and killed the Howards’ pet guinea hens and two cats. Neither has been sighted in the past year and a half. We heard yips the first night, in addition to barking hounds, a mariachi party and a police siren.

On the morning of checkout day, Denise let some of the hospice cats outside. Dutch, who had patchy fur and rheumy eyes, jumped on the bed and threw up a whole can of Fancy Feast on my coat. Abiding by the law of Purradise Springs, Denise took care of Dutch first, returning him to the infirmary. Then she tended to me, tossing my jacket in the wash.

Before driving off, I loudly tapped the trunk and the hood. No cats dropped down, nor did any come to say goodbye. They aren’t dogs, after all.