I wish to speak about my cat. Some facts about her bother me, which I find awfully strange. She crept into my life, you see, some twenty years ago, exposing her felinity to six strong, virile Toms while leaping through the grassy fields - the boys in hot pursuit. It really was a sight to see, as I watched from my stoop.
Now, I don't fancy cats at all - dogs are my forte. Cats? Too independent! Canines know their place. But when this earthy critter came mewing at my door with belly showing signs of life, begged food and nothing more, my heart just couldn't turn away. So to the fridge I went, and poured a bowl of milk for her - this was my first mistake.
Then, darn, would you believe it? This moxy to-be Mom just bit the hand that fed her - that's how she got her name.
I shook my head in disbelief, said, "Now, what do I do?" while gazing at my finger her teeth had punctured through. Well, needless to say, she was healthy and fine - and soon I discovered that I would survive. The Vet said, "You now owe me eighty-four bucks to send her right back to the wild."
So, greatly disgusted, I tried to ignore the pleaful, sad cries which resumed outside of my doorstep, both morning and night. My neighbors soon asked me to move. And when I got courage to open the door, it wasn't just her, for I saw the scrawniest kittens, with Mom in the front, perched proudly, now begging for four.
And off in the distance, I saw something weird - a battered old Tomcat with half of an ear, just sitting and waiting for Nipper's return. My heart took a lurch, for I thought he meant harm. Now this cat was Scar Face, as ugly as sin, from fighting and clawing all things on his trail. Apparently he was the dominant male. He cast me a look from the side of his eye which told me I daren't step over his "line," nor anywhere near him, for all he'd allow was nourishing Nipper, well said with a snarl.
I knew a little bit of cats, and how they took their prey, so when the dark of night would fall, upon the stoop I'd stay to watch this struggling little Mom protect the young she bore by moving them from bush to bush, to keep those kits secure. For, like a big explosion, the shrub would come alive with hissing sounds, great rumbling, and out the males would fly. But when old Scar Face would appear to staunchly take her guard, she slept the night serenely, her little ones unharmed.
And it was quite a treat to see, when sunshine would appear, young kittens safely romping - with Scar Face sitting near. And Nipper would be free to roam and forage for her birds. This Tom was "babysitting," and that was just absurd.
Now how could it be - that he seemed to know? We all see how cats are - they breed as they go with every, and any, new tail on the block. How in the deuce does he know he's their Pop?
I'd watch them together, revolving their days around one another, in hunting and play. So how does she know there's no danger, in thus entrusting her brood to this crafty old stud?
The love affair flourished, the kits came of age and, proudly, she smacked them right off on their way.
A new life was beckoning me and my child involving a move from this interesting field. Even though I hadn't liked her, at first, upon my departure, I loved her the best but felt it was kinder to leave her with him - for she was a wild cat, and couldn't be tamed.
I lasted for one night in my new abode. When morning came dawning, I ran to the phone. Enquired of my neighbor "Have you seen the Cat?" She said "Come and get her. She's driving me nuts with calling and crying on your favorite stoop. This cat has a problem. I think it is you!"
With glee in my heart, common sense gone astray, I jumped in the auto - my field cat to save! Arrived at her spot which was way across town and shouted her name "Come on, Nipper, come on!" The leaves started rustling, my heart seemed to stop. But then she came bounding right over the top of brambles and briars! I swelled in the chest! She nuzzled me warmly - and bit me, of course.
I wasn't quite so dumb this time, for I could ill-afford another veterinarian and quarantine in board. I grabbed her by the scruff of neck, before she got away - this cat had twice embarrassed me, but never would again. I took her to my new home, and gently put her down upon the kitchen floor, and got some milk, began to pour.
As unconcerned as ever, whereby entering my lair, she sauntered through the rooms and sprang upon my favorite chair, then settled down quite cozily, her motor in a purr, to fall into a peaceful sleep. We now belonged to her.
When night came a-falling, she started to moan from missing her Tomcat, I had to assume. So into the bedroom I went with this friend, while hoping to ease the confusion she had.
I woke the next morning, a smile on my face - which soon turned to shock. "Oh, my God, not again!" For, over the pillowcase, linens I'd seen three new baby Scar Faces - mewing at me.
And what did I see when I looked across the sill? You guessed it! Old Pop, giving looks that could kill!
Try to imagine the noise that evolved. Would not let him in! Could not let her out! His wailing, her calling, three screaming new cats!
How did I fall into this kind of trap?
I raised them, of course, fed the kittens by hand while altering Mother, I say now with shame, for that was the end of cavorting around. I thought that old Scar Face would be homeward-bound. How little I knew, then, of life and it's plays - it just didn't matter that she had been spayed. For he resumed courting again, for a year, as she waited daily. Then... he disappeared.
Another move pending, but now she became a little more house cat, and not so untamed. We settled away, sixty miles or so, for more than three years, dragging Nipper in tow.
She tried. Oh, how she tried to find him, while we were away by disappearing nights on end, and many, many days. And when she would return to us, her spark of life was gone. Would quietly ascend the stairs, and dream her dreams alone.
I, too, was feeling homesick, and soon that day arrived, and stated "We are going home. He might be still alive."
Now, I won't ask for your belief, but listen when I say that ten years had transpired from the time she took her mate. But somehow, she had chosen me, for reasons undefined as being more important than her natural incline. So once more, to a different home we found ourselves embarked - not far away from where her love affair first took a start.
She'd pensively sit by the window and stare, curl up in a ball, to awaken once more, with no interest evident in any birds, or field mice, or rabbits to which we'd returned. She worried me greatly, as seeming to say that we had arrived just a little too late.
But one morning, I saw her ear take a twitch, somehow she was different, her eyes were intense. Stretched out her front paws, threw her tail in a spin. I looked out the window to see... it was Him!
More battered, much older, still ugly, this Tom, but beautifully, graciously he was transformed in my eyes. My Nipper jumped off of the chair, begged loudly for exit, as he waited there.
If I'd been too calloused to offer my hand to this lowly she-cat when this all began, just think of the beauty I wouldn't have seen and wondrous lessons I couldn't have learned.
Old Scar Face is dead now. But Nipper still lives, a little bit blind, with an arthritic hip, and sometimes responds to the call of her name, but no longer forages outside for game. She's going on twenty-one years, come this spring, remaining with me - while still dreaming of him.
As for me? I've seen my miracle.
This news article is brought to you by
DRUG-ABUSE - where latest news are our top priority.
