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Monday, March 10, 2003 Page: 3A
Stray cats appear regularly on my family’s farm, slinking around for a few
weeks or maybe a month before moving on.
We never thought much about them, until Blackie.
He showed up just as mysteriously as the others, but decided to stay. As
year after year passed, he became fat and glossy – a mouse’s arch nemesis.
Somebody named him and he became a valued part of our farm.
We never thought about petting him. He kept his distance, and so did we,
until last summer when he suddenly decided we were OK. I guess approaching us
was nothing compared to what he went through in the wilds. Sometimes, he
showed up bloody, his ears or eyes mangled from fights.
He started coming to us as if he’d always done so – no hesitancy. He liked
to crawl on my lap and rub his head on my arm.
As I sat on my porch one night last summer, stroking Blackie, another black
cat emerged from the dark. This one was friendly, too, squawking for
attention. We decided it was a male, named it Charlie and, as the nights
turned crisp, bought them a small doghouse shaped like an igloo so they could
keep warm.
Many mornings, Blackie followed me down my sidewalk and sat on a stone wall
as I got into my car, watching me leave. He was rougher than my indoor cats,
sometimes startling me with his insistent nudges for attention, but I was
always glad to see him.
Charlie stuck close to the house. But sometimes, Blackie would disappear
for a day or two.
In early February, he was gone for more than a week. We should’ve known
something was wrong, because Charlie stopped going inside the igloo.
The only reason we looked inside the igloo on Feb. 8 was to see if Charlie
was inside. We’d suspected he was actually a she and planned to take him to a
vet to check for pregnancy.
But Blackie was inside with a broken leg.
Good things come in threes
Blackie didn’t cry or become angry when we pulled him from the igloo, even
though his leg was twisted backwards. He sat quietly during his first car ride
and stoically allowed the vet to examine and euthanize him.
The little cat who’d wedged himself into our lives left a great void.
I still look for him on the stonewall when I’m leaving for work in the
morning.
But he left us a gift – his progeny.
Charlie was a female after all. We renamed her Charly, brought her inside,
and on 3-3-03, she delivered three kittens.
All black.
I rush home nights and sit next to the laundry basket where they nuzzle on
their mother and doze. She’s so hungry for attention that when I pet her, she
sometimes sits on her kittens. They tunnel under her, quickly emerging and
zeroing in on her belly. They’re tough, like their dad.
We’ll make sure the kittens find good homes and that they’re spayed or
neutered. Charly will be spayed soon, too, and has a permanent place at my
house.
We already have a name for one of the kittens – Blackie. Now, we have to
figure out if one is a male. With my history, that might not be as easy is it
sounds.
Call LaCoe at 829-7155 or e-mail jeanl@leader.net.