The Errant Cat
I love cats. I much prefer them to dogs. As a result, I have too many cats. There are three that make their permanent residence inside our house, and nine that live outside in the barn and sleep in the basement.
Most of those were born here, others were brought, like the three original outside cats. Last year we had a plague of mice and rats that preferred our barn to the cold fields and woods. Poison didn't do anything other than feed them, it seemed, and the dog could only bark at them. My husband decided to re-introduce cats to the barn when my mother-in-law's cat had kittens, and brought three of them. This year they multiplied to nine. There isn't a rat nor a mouse to be sniffed out in the barn, the basement, or the field.
Over the years, my daughter has gotten into the habit of bringing home strays. Our indoor Anton was the latest. She had gone to the festival of St. Anthony at a nearby parish in June seven years ago with a friend. While wandering around, my daughter heard a mewling she thought to be a seagull from under parked cars. It turned out to be Anton, a shivering mite of a kitten, half Siamese, half Common European. She stuck him in her jacket and brought him home with her. She explained that she couldn't leave him there to be run over. So he got named Anton in remembrance of his finding. Now, he's a brash, demanding cat that generally gets what he wants by brute force and drowning us in his beautiful blue eyes.
Today, my daughter went to take the trash to the containers down the road. After she had been there for a bit, and I was thinking I hadn't heard her come back, I hear a knock on the door. I open the door and I find her standing there with a wet kitten in her arms. She smiles and apologetically declares she couldn't just leave it out there in the rain, mewing, alone, and cold. So she comes in with the kitten. We dry it off, feed it, and try not to let the other cats kill it, particularly Anton, who resents the intruder. I suspect her mother was a black cat killed by a car the other day, just near where my daughter found the kitten.
So now, she's trying to find someone who wants to adopt a cat. Hopefully, she'll find someone soon. Because Anton isn't happy. Nor is Nuxca nor Macarena. And when the outside cats see her, they won't be happy, either. And I'm not happy because we have enough mouths to feed already.
We're not a cat shelter. I think.
Most of those were born here, others were brought, like the three original outside cats. Last year we had a plague of mice and rats that preferred our barn to the cold fields and woods. Poison didn't do anything other than feed them, it seemed, and the dog could only bark at them. My husband decided to re-introduce cats to the barn when my mother-in-law's cat had kittens, and brought three of them. This year they multiplied to nine. There isn't a rat nor a mouse to be sniffed out in the barn, the basement, or the field.
Over the years, my daughter has gotten into the habit of bringing home strays. Our indoor Anton was the latest. She had gone to the festival of St. Anthony at a nearby parish in June seven years ago with a friend. While wandering around, my daughter heard a mewling she thought to be a seagull from under parked cars. It turned out to be Anton, a shivering mite of a kitten, half Siamese, half Common European. She stuck him in her jacket and brought him home with her. She explained that she couldn't leave him there to be run over. So he got named Anton in remembrance of his finding. Now, he's a brash, demanding cat that generally gets what he wants by brute force and drowning us in his beautiful blue eyes.
Today, my daughter went to take the trash to the containers down the road. After she had been there for a bit, and I was thinking I hadn't heard her come back, I hear a knock on the door. I open the door and I find her standing there with a wet kitten in her arms. She smiles and apologetically declares she couldn't just leave it out there in the rain, mewing, alone, and cold. So she comes in with the kitten. We dry it off, feed it, and try not to let the other cats kill it, particularly Anton, who resents the intruder. I suspect her mother was a black cat killed by a car the other day, just near where my daughter found the kitten. So now, she's trying to find someone who wants to adopt a cat. Hopefully, she'll find someone soon. Because Anton isn't happy. Nor is Nuxca nor Macarena. And when the outside cats see her, they won't be happy, either. And I'm not happy because we have enough mouths to feed already.
We're not a cat shelter. I think.
You are a cat shelter. Admit it.
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