A Cat by Any Other Name
When we moved into our first home, a wild cat obviously recognizing a new food chain, began hanging around. We couldn’t get near her but judging by her, pardon the pun, hangdog expression, she was sorely in need of food.
As any family with kids will tell you, it was never a question of “Can we feed her?“, but rather “How soon can you get to the store“? So began the saga of “Mama” cat. No matter how much we stuffed her with food, she resisted every effort to let anyone pet her, instead making sure no one was nearby to see her consume her free handouts.
As the days got cold, it soon became clear that “Mama” at one time in her past, had been “friendlier” than she was now and was going to have kittens, hence her ferocious appetite.
Between our back steps and the house, there was just enough space to drop a tennis ball and that’s where “Mama” decided to drop her four kittens. There was no doubt they would freeze if we didn’t help her, so with much spitting, scratching and clawing from the ungrateful wretch, we successfully transferred the family to our basement where we had made a bed for her.
She was terrified, as she had never been inside before, and would have bolted at once if not for her motherly instincts. Of course, the kittens all were given names and unlike their mother, were very happy to have a warm place to stay. “Mama” was greatly relieved when they were all allowed outside again.
One of the kittens was named George who was very playful and frisky. Seven months had passed and we found out just how frisky George was, as “George” had a litter of five which made nine cats! To make matters worse, poor dumb playgirl “Georgette” had no clue about “birthin’ no babies”, so “Mama” had to do all the dirty work and nurse the newborns besides. We were finally able to spread the kitten wealth, which just left “Mama” to contend with, who was still no friendlier than when she first came into our lives.
We used to have an egg man who delivered eggs every week and, out of desperation, asked him if he wanted “Mama” cat. “Sure”, he said, “the farm can always use a good mouser”. Arrangements were made and we put “Mama”, spitting, snarling and screaming, in a box to take her to the farm, an hour away.
Poor Paul, holding the box on his lap, had to contend with a clawing arm every few minutes as “Mama” tried to escape. After a harrowing trip and the awful stench of cat pervading the car, we finally arrived with frayed nerves, Paul’s arms scratched beyond belief, and a sense of relief from Ed and me.
In a Pickle
7 years ago
