A Kitten for Kelly

           Kelly lived with her parents and older brother in a little house overlooking the ocean.  The house sat on the side of a granite hill surrounded by forest. Some of the little girl's best friends were the animals that lived in those woods. Every morning before school, she went outside to top-up the bird feeders, making sure they were full of seed. In the afternoon, Kelly checked the old stump that held peanuts and sunflower seeds for the squirrels. She had given names to many of the bushy-tailed neighbors. On weekends, she would walk down to the beach and sit on the pier, watching the sea lions lazing on the rocks, or the sea-otters playing in the surf.

            Kelly loved the wild critters, but she had always wanted a cat. Her teenage brother, Mark, had a dog named Skipper. He was a black and tan  mostly-German-Shepherd, and followed the boy everywhere. Mark had found him by the road one day, scraggly and skinny, and brought him home. He had bathed and groomed him and fattened him up. Now he was a part of the family. He was friendly and sweet, but he was really Mark's dog. Kelly was very envious.

            "Mama," she would say, "Don't you think I could have a kitten?"

            Mama would reply with a smile, "You be patient, sweetie, the time will come."

            So Kelly tried to be patient, and made do with her wild friends.

            Spring came to the forest and everything seemed to be growing. The leaves sprouted on the alders and the hummingbirds returned from their winter hide-away. The does appeared with tiny, white spotted fawns. They were so used to people that even Skipper did not bother them. Kelly's dad had built a fence to keep the friendly deer out of his wife's garden.

            This garden was one of the little girl's favorite places, with sweet peas and roses and strawberry bushes. She would stretch out on the grass under the apple tree and daydream, sure that fairies lived in the branches above. Sometimes she would set up her little farm with all its plastic cows, sheep and horses and play for hours. One day, just after lunch, Kelly was out in the garden when a huge, calico cat, appeared at the edge of the fence. Girl and cat stared at each other for a minute. The cat stretched lazily, and began washing her face with a forepaw. Kelly giggled. She reached out her hand. "Here kitty, kitty," she said softly.

            The cat raised her head and looked, then casually turned and left the garden. Kelly was curious. She got up to follow. By the time she got through the gate, the cat was gone.

            After that, Kelly saw the cat regularly. Sometimes it was in the garden, and sometimes sunning on a rock or crossing the drive, going toward the beach. Try as she might, she was never able to get near enough to touch it. Soon she started leaving a dish of food near the garden fence. Each morning the dish would be empty, but she was never sure if it was the cat, or some raccoons that were enjoying the feast.

            Kelly decided to try again, "Daddy, could I have a kitten for my birthday? I'll be eight this year. Isn't that old enough?"

            Her father tried to look gruff, "An animal is a lot of responsibility. Do you think you could remember to feed and take care of it?"

            "Of course I could!" Kelly stated, indignantly. "I'd take the best care of it!"

            "Well," he gave in, smiling. "We'll see what we can do. But you better be extra good!"

            Kelly was beaming. Surely she would have her very own kitten soon.

            Spring wore on. The daffodils opened, wild all over the woods, and the tulips behind the fence raised their colorful heads. The herbs in mother's garden had soft new growth and a lovely fragrance. The bushes were alive with birds of all kinds. And the calico cat kept visiting the little girl.

            The day of Kelly's birthday was sunny, warm for late May. It was a perfect day for a party. Her mother had set up cake and games on the front deck, and several friends were expected that afternoon. It was a wonderful birthday. The girls played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and broke a piñata. After cake and ice cream, they played hide-and-seek in the woods. Kelly had a great time.

            That evening after supper, the family gathered for their own little celebration. The hearth was stacked with birthday gifts. There was a big box from her father. She decided to save it for last. Some muffled noises seemed to be coming from it. There were the  clothes from her mother, as usual, and a game from Mark. Finally she tore the wrapping from the big box. Inside was a cage containing a small black and white rabbit. For just a moment, Kelly was disappointed. Then she reached in pulled the bunny into her arms. The soft ears and twitching nose won her over instantly. "Thank you, Daddy! I promise I'll take good care of him!"

            "I know that you will," her father grinned. "I'm sorry that it's not a kitten, but no one in the whole county had kittens yet. I guess it's too early in the year."

            "That's ok," she grinned back. "This bunny is just perfect."

            Kelly named the rabbit Hoppy, and played with him every day out in the yard. Sometimes the calico cat would watch them, probably hoping for a rabbit dinner, but she never came very close. The girl made sure Hoppy was safely tucked into his cage before she went in for the evening. She loved her bunny, but she dreamed of having a kitten curled up in her lap when she did her homework. Of course, she never told her parents. They had tried the best they could.

            Spring turned into summer and school let out. The long lazy days stretched out in front of her. Hours spent playing in the woods and in the garden, going to the beach and fishing off the pier. She noticed that she hadn't seen the big cat in quite a while.

            One Saturday in early July, Kelly went to town to shop with her mother. They went to the mall and had lunch at a coffee shop. In late afternoon they drove back home, tired and happy. As they turned up the drive, Kelly spotted Mark on the front porch, grinning from ear to ear, waiting for them. What's he up to? She wondered.

            Mark came out to help unload the car. "Hurry up," He urged, "Dad has something to show you."

            In the family room, Dad was stretched out in his favorite recliner. He put his fingers to his lips as he saw them come in.  Lying on his chest, wrapped in a dish towel, was a tiny kitten. It raised sleepy eyes and uttered a tiny meow. Kelly gasped in awe, "Where did it come from?"

            "It was the darndest thing," Mark piped up, "I heard Skipper barking by the garden fence, and he wouldn't stop. So I went to see what was going on, and there was this little kitty, lying in the herb garden under the apple tree."

            "All by itself?"

            "Uh huh, all alone. And look, it can hardly walk, it's so little."

            Kelly took the kitten from her Dad. He could hold it in the palm of one hand. It was black, with a white bib, white whiskers and white hind paws. Its eyes were still blue, only having been open a few days, at most. She held it up to her face. It smelled of lavender and sunshine.

            "How did it get there?"

            "All I can figure," her father answered, "is that she got separated from her mother. They'll leave them sometimes, the littlest ones. But I haven't seen any stray cats around here."

            "I have," Kelly said, entranced, "A big black and orange one."

            "I've seen that one too," Mark nodded. "Maybe that's the mom."

            "What are you going to do with it?" the girl was almost afraid to ask.

            Her Dad smiled. "As I recall, I did promise someone a kitten."

            "Really?" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "I can keep it? It's so cute! Is it a boy or a girl?"

            "Pretty sure it's a girl. But we'll have the vet check her all out anyway." Dad said, "I'll bet she was born right around the time of your birthday."

             Skipper came into the room. The tiny kitten arched her back and hissed at the huge dog. Skipper gave her a sniff, then with a slurp licked her from head to toe. Everyone laughed. "Well, I guess it's official," Mom said, "That little thing is part of the family now."

          Kelly went to bed happy that night, a basket full of kitten purring by her side. She was sure the old garden cat had not abandoned her baby, but had left the kitten just for her. Why else would she have been in just that spot in the garden, under the magic apple tree?

 

Feeding the Bear

(A Sequel to Waiting for Cheese - Oct. 2011)

 

            There have been feral cats in the San Juan Islands for as long as there have been people. They have adapted, become as much part of the environment as the squirrels. The population remains quite stable, and the cats are amazingly healthy. Most likely, that's because so many people feed them. There is still a healthy population of juncos, finches and stellar jays. I've had to refill birdfeeders daily in the winter. During parts of spring and summer, hummingbirds invade the deck like swarms of bees. It's hard to keep three bottles full of nectar. The cats don't seem to bother the birds. As an added bonus, we don't have a rodent problem, either.

My husband and I refer to these felines as free-range. It seems so much kinder than feral. We had been told the old black-and-white Tom that "came with" our farmhouse was one of the founding fathers. He was long gone, but many of the cats that crossed our property bore his tuxedo markings. Not being cat people, we never paid much attention to them. Then one summer, our son found a tiny kitten, abandoned in my herb garden. He brought her inside, and Smokey became part of our family. She has not set a paw outdoors since.            

Two years later, we were adopted by two of Smokey's siblings. There was dark grey JR, who looked like Smokey, but with long hair, and golden Brownie. Both were friendly, with lots of personality. They had been living in our garden rockery since they were tiny, first with their mother, then on their own. We grew quite attached to them. As autumn approached, my husband built a shelter for them on our porch, and I started feeding them regularly. The young cats were sleek and fat. However, they were anything but tame.

That was the problem. When we decided to relocate, we didn't know what to do about JR and Brownie. We discussed and considered every option, from taking them to the local rescue shelter (where they would surely find homes), to taking them with us to our new location. Either way would involve actually catching the cats. 

As moving day approached, I began putting their dinner in the laundry room, with the door open. Cautiously, the shy critters came in to eat, as long as no one was in there. My plan was to get them accustomed to being inside, gradually closing the door, until they would let me pick them up. After a couple of weeks, it became obvious that being tame housecats was not in these guy's plans. They would purr, and rub our legs, but would scurry away at any motion to touch them. We decided then that finding them a "new home" would do more harm than good. They had been born in the woods, had come from parents many generations free-range. My husband compared them to young raccoons.

We made the rather painful decision to leave the boys at the farm. I spoke to the new tenants, (who were happy to have resident rat-catchers), provided ten pounds of kibble to get them started, and waved a reluctant good-bye to JR and Brownie.

Smokey had lived exclusively indoors since she was four weeks old. The old house had been her whole universe. After watching her adjust to her new surroundings, I felt better about the choice we had made. She might as well have been on Mars. Fearfully, she stayed under our bed for hours at a time. At least the boys were in their familiar territory. They only "needed" us at feeding time.

I ran into the new people several times in the first month. Each time, I was told that the "little gray cat with the white boots" hung around the woodshed. They had been putting food out for him, trying to make friends. However, there had been no sign of Brownie. I toyed with the idea of making a poster to put down at the little store, just to see if there had been any sightings, but discarded the notion as rather silly. My husband and I were both certain he was alive. About 18 months old, he was sturdy and muscular. Brownie knew how to take care of himself.

Several more weeks went by, and life got back to normal. It had taken a few days for Smokey to discover the joys of wall-to-wall carpeting. After that, she was quite comfortable and happy. We were still on acreage, surrounded by forest. A herd of deer made daily foraging trips across our yard, and a flock of wild pigeons roosted in a large hawthorn tree. One afternoon, eleven of the neighbor's sheep found a break in the fence, and came over to visit us. Every so often, we would see cats near the edge of the meadow, hunting. One was a huge animal that could have passed for a bobcat, except for its distinctly domestic face.

On a sunny April morning, I was on my way to work when I saw a flash of ginger fur, just outside the door. The animal disappeared before I could get a good look at it.  Over the next few days, we saw the orange cat several times, but always from a distance. Then there he was, close enough to see the little scar on the pink nose, the kink in the tail, Brownie had found us!

Speaking softly and moving slowly, I approached the little cat. He backed off, but didn't run. His fur looked somewhat ragged and he had lost weight. I got a dish of cat food, set it on the step, and walked away, careful not to make eye contact. Brownie waited until I was in my car, then he attacked the food ravenously.   

I drove to work with a smile on my face. I had really missed the little cat. Excited, I called my husband. Our new place was about a mile up the road by pavement, much less, as the cat scampers. In his cat-ly wanderings, he must have recognized our vehicles or the scents on them. It's very unlikely that Brownie had been looking for us, but I like to think he was glad, anyway. He was gone when I got home that night, and we didn't see him again for several days. Each evening I stood on the porch and called his name. I was nearly ready to give up, when one night I heard a soft meow in response. "Hey Brownie-boy," I coaxed. "Welcome home buddy. Come get some dinner."

Setting a dish of table scraps on the porch, I stepped back inside. Cautiously, the cat approached, his whiskers twitching, smelling the food. "It's ok, good fella," I crooned softly, "Come on, Brown-bear, that's for you."

Hunger finally won out over his fear. Nervously he stretched forward, grabbed a bite and darted away. I went inside, and slowly, Brownie came back to the dish to finish his meal. The shyer of the two kittens, he had always been very quiet, rarely making a sound.  As I watched through the open window, I could hear him purring, the loudest purr I had ever heard.

It went on like this for several days. Every evening, Brownie would come a little closer. The day he actually started eating, before I backed away from the dish, it felt like a small victory. I had finally won a smidgen of his trust. I watched him, contentedly eating. The young cat was obviously thinner. He had been hunting mice, and eating garbage, and was probably infested with parasites. A dose of worm medicine, and some flea drops between his shoulder blades would take care of that problem.

Being on his own, away from JR, Brownie's personality began to shine through. Talkative and friendly, he was happy to rub his body on our legs, while purring and meowing softly. As spring turned to summer, he stayed near the house, sunning on the warm gravel, or curled up on the steps beside the door. He gained weight and filled out, growing into a compact cat, stocky and strong. He started to look like a little brown bear.

Over time, Brownie became quite approachable, by his standards. A good ear-scratching or back rub would earn much purring, as long as we didn't try to pick him up. We folded an old quilt into a thick pad, and placed it in the mud room, near his dish. That night at dinnertime, my husband and I watched through the window. After finishing his cat food, Brownie gave the blanket a cautious sniff, and lay down tentatively. From then on, he was very comfortable, eating and sleeping inside, as long as the door was ajar.

The first truly cold evening of autumn, I let Brownie in and shut the door. Distracted by the dishing-up of dinner, he didn't notice at first. I set his bowl down, saw him start eating, and went into the house, leaving him alone in the mud room. Good, I thought, he doesn't mind. He'll be safe and warm, with a soft place to sleep.

"How's Brownie doing out there?" my husband asked an hour or so later.

I said I didn't know, and let's go check. Peering into the dim room, we fully expected to see the cat curled up, asleep. Instead, we didn't see him anywhere. Flipping on the light, I stepped into the mud room and called his name. Instantly, I heard a low growl. Following my ear, I saw Brownie, crouched in the corner behind a stack of flowerpots, looking terrified.

"It's okay, fella," I said, feeling terrible, "I'm so sorry, boy, I didn't mean for you to be scared." Quickly, I crossed the room and opened the outside door. Brownie was through it in a flash of ginger fur. No amount of coaxing would bring him back in, that night.

By the next day, however, all was well again. We made sure the door remained open a bit. My husband stretched a mini-bungee from door-knob to door-frame, held in place by a coffee can doorstop. Brownie had made his wishes abundantly clear. No matter how much he trusts us, confinement is not his cup of tea. So, we do what we can by providing some food and shelter, and he does his part by keeping the rodents away.

The Brown Bear was born a free-range cat, and free-range he has chosen to remain, but he still enjoys his blanket.

Waiting for Cheese

            Our old farmhouse came with a cat. He was a big black and white tom, who according to legend had been the resident mouser for well over a decade. His original owners had long since moved on, leaving him to fend for himself. Consecutive tenants had put food out for him, but he was no ones pet.

            The farm sat near the end of the paved road, with forest on three sides. Wildlife was everywhere.  We had deer, raccoons, squirrels, birds of all kinds. And cats, plenty of cats. Evidently, Blackie had done more than catch mice during his tenure at the farm. More than a few of our feline visitors bore a distinct resemblance to the old tom.

            They were what we called free-range cats. We mostly saw them passing through, on their way to some place else. Blackie came and went as he pleased, so it was a while before we noticed that he didn’t come home at all. I stopped filling his dish after it went untouched for a week.

            The following spring a small calico-tabby set up house in our garden. There was a small “cave” in the rockery, and this was where she hid her kittens. Every day, Mama would stash the babies in the cave, and go hunt for supper. An hour or two later, she would return, collect her kittens, and go back to wherever they lived the rest of the time. They kept to the same routine for several weeks. Once the babies were weaned, the whole family moved on. Treating them as we would any wild creatures, we didn’t get involved.

            This became an annual ritual. The third summer, a tiny kitten was left behind. Whether by accident or design remains a mystery. Our son found it and brought it into the house. She was solid grey, with a white bib, and fit into the palm of my husband’s hand. The vet estimated her age at 3½ to 4 weeks, barely weaned. We named her Smokey, and she became the first indoor cat we’d ever had.

            The parade of free-range cats continued. Smokey would sit on the windowsill and watch, showing no interest in going out. It was a big, scary world out there. The closest she came the great outdoors was catching spiders and moths when they got into the house.

            Last spring, Mama again brought her brood. Our garden was a small, fully fenced enclosure that was attached to the house on two sides. This provided a relatively safe sanctuary for her offspring. She had three kittens this year. One was pure white, the second an orange tabby. The third looked very much like Smokey.

            We started to call the garden the “playpen”. It was quite obvious that the cat was leaving her kids in daycare while she went hunting. One morning I stepped out onto the deck. We had just spread fresh straw mulch on all the beds. Mama, making use of the soft surface, was stretched out, nursing her babies in the shade of the rhubarb leaves. She raised her head to look at me, and I realized she had a pretty face. I had always thought of her as kind of homely, with her blotchy coloring. I slipped back in for my camera, but when I returned, she was already sitting up, bathing her kitties. I photographed her anyway.

            I had been given a digital camera for Christmas, and I couldn’t resist using the cats as subjects. For the first few days, all we could see of the babies were faces peeking out of the rockery. Gradually, as they grew older and bolder, they ventured out of the den to romp among the flowers. Their scrawny little pooptails were carried straight up, like flags. My husband and I would watch them through the kitchen window, laughing at their antics. I started putting food scraps out for Mama a couple of times a week. We kept the dish away from the house, out by the woodshed. I hoped that would prevent her from becoming too dependant on us.

In conversation, we named the kittens: Whitey, Brownie and Smokey Junior, JR for short. Whitey was the smallest of the three, but also the most aggressive. He would pounce and growl at his larger siblings, trying to be assertive. Brownie was the prettiest, a lovely golden brown tiger, with a white chest and paws. JR, mostly grey and white was the only one with long hair.

            I felt like a naturalist, studying a pride of miniature lions. Any chance I got, I spent time outside, watching the kittens and taking pictures. I had fun observing their behavior. It became apparent that JR was the alpha male. Brownie was his sidekick, copying everything JR did. In my mind, that made him a male, too. We had no way of really knowing the sex of the kittens; it was just a poetic assumption.      

Mama was leaving them alone more and more of the time. The three little kittens felt very secure in the playpen. We would see them, lined up like birds on a wire, sunning themselves on the logs bordering the flowerbeds. One warm, rainy night, we heard a tiny noise outside the screen door. A flip of the light switch revealed a pile of kittens huddled on the welcome mat. It would seem it was dryer there.  They didn’t bother to run, they were just too comfortable.

Time went on and Mama stopped bringing her kids to the garden. I continued to put table scraps out by the barn, and the little family would come by every evening to eat. One afternoon, JR was early. Somehow, he had been separated from his family. For several hours, he paraded around the garden and the deck, mewling loudly. Smokey stood with her paws against the screen door, watching her sibling. The two came nose to nose through the screen, talking in short murps and purrs. We were just starting to consider the necessity of adopting another abandoned kitten when Mama, Whitey and Brownie showed up. JR’s relief was palpable. They gathered around him, and groomed each other vigorously.  

The little family became part of our world. Sometimes they came in a group, sometimes from different directions, converging at the front of the shed. If we didn’t see any of them for a couple of days, we started to worry. It seems kind of funny. The area’s feral cat population had been living just fine without us for countless years. They didn’t bother anyone, and nobody bothered them. Somehow, this set of pooptails was different. They captured our hearts.

One evening, Mama was at the feed dish. The kits were sitting in their customary posture, all in a row, waiting their turn. We stood at the back door, watching them eat. My husband suddenly stiffened. “Get me the pellet gun, quick.”

I grabbed the small rifle and rushed back with it. Then I saw a large raccoon, edging up the hill toward the cats. The coon wanted the table scraps, but would gladly snatch a kitten, given the opportunity.

Mama saw it, and retreated protectively toward her kittens. My husband took aim and a pellet glanced off the shed wall. The intent was to frighten, not injure. The raccoon interrupted his feeding just long enough to raise his head and snarl. The next pellet bounced off his butt. That made the animal jump away from the dish. After the third shot, he waddled off into the woods.  Mama and the kitties slowly emerged from under the motor home.  She turned her pretty face toward us, and I swear she smiled.

It was mid August when Whitey stopped coming around. The kittens had been on their own for a couple of weeks. We saw less and less of Mama, but her three children continued to visit the playpen. And then there were two. We like to believe that a neighbor found and adopted the pretty kitten, but know that it’s unlikely. A pure white critter doesn’t have much benefit of camouflage.

My collection of cat photographs continued to grow. JR and Brownie were continually striking a pose, whether they knew it or not. They provided much entertainment, and I regularly watched them through the kitchen window while I cooked. I noticed that sometimes the two brothers would sit sphinx-like, and simply stare up at the sky.

“Look at those silly things! What do you suppose they’re up to?” I mused, not expecting an answer.

My husband’s eyes dropped sheepishly. “Cheese,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me?” I thought I’d heard wrong.

“Cheese,” he repeated. “They’re waiting for cheese.”

He went on to explain that he had been tossing pieces of co-jack or cheddar out to the kittens every day.

“They can use the extra protein.” The avowed non-cat-person continued. “They’re too scrawny.”

I smiled and pulled out a block of cheese. “Show me.”

Very quietly, we crept out the back door. The kitties backed off a few feet. “I toss it up high, so they can’t tell it’s coming from me,” he whispered, arcing a cheese chunk.

It landed about a foot in front of JR. He pounced on it and zipped around the corner. The second piece fell inches from Brownie’s nose. He in turn snatched it up and scurried away. I giggled. “It’s raining cheese!”

“Manna from heaven!” We laughed together.

Wherever they thought their treat was coming from, the kittens thrived. They were healthy and fit. I put food out regularly now. JR, the larger of the two by about a third, always left the dish first. We surmised that he was the more successful hunter, and therefore less hungry. This allowed Brownie to eat more, he actually looked chubbier.

I worried about the coming winter. We had interfered with the natural balance, and now we felt responsible for the little critters. None of the kittens from previous years had stuck around. Never before giving it a thought, now we wondered if any had survived. We decided that since we had already meddled, we couldn’t stop now. We would not attempt to tame the cats. We would however, move the feeder into the carport, and provide a box for shelter. The little animals could use it or not, as they chose.

Over the next week, I gradually moved their food closer to the house, until it was under the overhang, out of the weather.

My husband fixed a nice cat hut out of an old Styrofoam cooler and lined it with an old blanket. He set it up near the dish, and we retreated to the window. Brownie and JR approached cautiously, and sniffed. It took the half-grown kittens about a minute to decide that the box was not only safe, but also fun to play in. I felt a sense of relief. We had done all we could do to insure the well-being of our outside cats.

Now, every evening when I cook dinner, I look out the window and see the feline brothers. Sometimes they wrestle. Other times they doze in the sun. They have taken to sleeping in the hut, sometimes. And every night, they eventually end up sitting side by side, staring expectantly up at the sky . . . waiting for cheese.