Stupendous Cool Cats

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STUPENDOUS COOL CATS
By Kathe Campbell

While I fold laundry he leans in hard, flicking his ringed tail, encircling and caressing my ankles. He curls up close, watching me nap until I wake with tears blanketing my eyes.

"Poor kitty, my poor sweet old guy," I sigh.

One of my kitty's nine lives had begun months before after which some heartless person tossed him out into our forest. I've seen dozens of the frightened things, mostly kitten litters, standing bewildered at the edge of the dusty road; defenseless dump-offs. They rush into the woods, innocent victims of someone who most likely has no use for cats.

My neighbors and I spotted this big, yellow feline who now offers his companionship to me. We watched him throughout his harrowing journey, his fear and doubt ruling. No amount of enticing could corral him.

The kitty may well have been a sweet guy, good with kids, probably used his kitty box faithfully, and purred sweet love songs on every lap. But now the wilderness echoed unfamiliar sounds, thrusting him at tree trunks, sending him clambering high until there was only the sound of the babbling creek.

Sprawling over a large limb or hunkered in the crotch of a fir, he waited for dawn's pink glow and safe flight. But safe flights were rare. Coyotes, badgers, foxes, weasels, even owls and raptors had him on their short list.

Winter came blustery and white, and the cat looked to be eternally, deep-down frozen and shivery, but he held his ground, refusing tossed kibbles until the coast was clear. Gimping along on cracked and sore paws, he made his way through thick underbrush where the ground laid barer. Sometimes gigantic fir boughs loosed their great snow loads in the wind, plunging heavily atop his hiding places, nearly burying him alive.

His coat was losing its luster and thick mantle; his only belongings were tangled masses of rangy clothing protruding down his back. Tree saps fused his carcass together into stiff, hairy spurs, seemingly pulling and stretching him with every move. Listening to his own purr must have been his only comfort, but the freeze cruelly shattered anything more than a small, raspy yawp as he fled our mercy.

After months of wandering and rustling up his own pitiful grub, dwellings suddenly appeared in our mountain valley. The cat had made it through winter on his own -- scrawny, but intact, with new zest in his gait. His wilderness plight said much about never losing heart.

Dump-offs usually pose an edgy, woeful presence at places they encounter, and this kitty was no exception. Still guarded, the sorry old guy moved from one barn to another. Despite unwanted intrusions into the local feline establishment, his grit became the subject of rural gossip.

A kitty should be fit for productive hunting, so folks began tossing scraps from behind small cracks in their doorways. Competing with dogs and raccoons, he gobbled up anything, for his mousing days had become few.

Like clockwork, I retreated from my log dwelling to feed my donkey herd every morning. The cat watched, clearly in need of a kind word but leery of the dog who romped at my side. I bent low for him to eat from my hand, but he was terrified to venture close.

Quieting his fears, I left an old, woolen army blanket and daily bowl of chow and milk atop the tallest bale in my hay-room. He seemed almost content in the place if his matted coat hadn't finally overwhelmed his tongue, even in the warmth of spring.

If Mother Nature were an actress, autumn would be her finest performance. Orangey leaves and cooler nights warned cat he wouldn't survive another winter as he dared peek over the hay bales with his hackles up -- just in case.

Murmuring soft kitty sounds while at my daily chores, I reached up to touch his head just once before he panicked and fled. Then one afternoon, with all the courage he could muster, he thrust out his claws and climbed down into my lap to let me stroke his chin. Pent-up emotions finally gave way, releasing his burden and my tears.

"It's okay fella, it's okay. I've got you now. I won't rush you. Take your time dear old thing," I said, as my crippled fingers nuzzled the cat's neck.

He was home.

I called him General Sterling Price after the big yellow cat in the movie, "True Grit." The Keeshond he had feared quickly welcomed him. My dog followed the General around for days watching him roll in delicious green grass, obviously fascinated by his gamy and bizarre self. I wondered how old the General was. He was surely in his teens, looking grizzled after losing an eye, various teeth, and another of his nine lives.

He curls up in front of the fireplace lest an occasional stroll into the barn where the mice have his number. After rugged exploits on our Montana mountain, he's old, thin, and tired. Often I carry him to his bowl of milk and special supper that puts a dent in my monthly check. I dare not complain, for I, too, have been in the fight.

His dauntless spirit teaches me courage daily -- not to whine over my own big stuff, but to have the patience to endure it. So we joyfully pursue our antiquity together, while the General longingly eyes the cedar chest at the foot of our bed. After awhile he works his way up where, at long last, a wee purr thrums its sweet love song in my ear.

There, I remind him: "We're not so bedraggled, my sweet General. You have one eye and only a few teeth. I have one arm and only a few teeth as well. We're survivors, and that makes us a pair of stupendous cool cats."

BIO:
Kathe Campbell lives on a Montana mountain with her mammoth donkeys, Keeshond, and a few kitties. She is a prolific writer on Alzheimer's, and her stories are found on many ezines. Kathe is a contributing author to the Chicken Soup For The Soul series, numerous anthologies, RX for Writers, Daily Devotionals, and medical journals. Email her at kathe@wildblue.net

SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT:
Who are the animals who parallel your life's journey?