Meow - the Beginning
Wed., January 30, 02:31 PM
In the days of the open road when jobs were often scarce, hoboes rode the rails, traveling around the country and taking whatever work was available. They only worked enough to subsist, gladly traveling again when the spirit (or necessity) struck them. Among the customs of the hobo culture were little messages to the next guy who came by – unnoticed by those who lived there but recognized by other hoboes.
One of these signs was often left on a fence or gatepost, a stick figure of a cat, that meant “a kind women lives here.” It usually indicated a place where a transient might work for a meal. I think there’s a similar sign on my house. Oddly enough, it’s in cat language. I’m not sure of the actual wording, but I know what it means – “suckers here!”
About two years ago we looked outside to see a mother cat nursing her kittens on our pavement. I had no need for more cats – my daughter had brought her “Hey Boy” when she moved back home – but I just can’t ignore a nursing mother. So we took a little food outside, and she quickly learned that she could always eat here. (Fortunately, I was already buying budget cat food and we had plenty of dry food, though we accepted donations from anyone who had a finicky cat.)
She was just adorable and I called her Precious. She was very young – it was probably her first litter – but she was a very good mother. Soon we noticed a pattern; she always ate first. If there was food left, the babies could eat some solid food; if not, the milk bar was open.
As the kittens – two tabbies and one solid black – grew larger, they needed names too. (My daughter had been saying “Precious and the Mews; it sounded like a rock group.)
The black one was Uno – Uno the Intrepid, who came right into the garage and even stayed there overnight. The other two were indistinguishable for a long time and we called them Dos-a and Tres-i. If one looked a little larger than the other, that was Dos-a, by default.
As soon as other cats discovered that there was a source of easy food, we had a whole entourage. One of the nicest was one we called Smoky – and that evidently was his name with other people, for he answered to it. Smoky is solid gray with aqua eyes and very lovable, so glad to be petted that he may knock the food out of your hand in his eagerness to touch you. And one of the most interesting things about Smoky is that Precious and her babies seem to like him too. (Maybe he and Precious were from the same litter?) Precious hisses at most other cats – at me too, but I hiss back.
Eventually we named all the strays: Creamsicle, Tuxedo, Fluffy, Not Smoky. Tuxedo was simply a black and white cat that looked as if he were in evening dress. Creamsicle was an orange and white cat with an injured paw. We never found out just how injured it was, but we did notice that he limped more when he knew someone was watching. Fluffy was a dark gray long-haired impostor; that is, he wore a collar with a tag and obviously had another source of food and love, so we chased him away.
I walked up to Smoky one day and he ran away from me. I couldn’t figure out why, until he turned around and I saw his yellow eyes. He was Not Smoky, that’s why he didn’t act like him. Not Smoky eventually became tamer and let me pet him until he got too bold – but that’s another story.
Precious stayed nearby with her kittens all through the winter. I fed them in the morning when I went out to get my newspaper. They came to us for food regularly (and complained if we were too slow!), took shelter under our steps, and still wouldn’t let us touch them.
As a matter of fact, that’s the reason they’re still around. When we talked to Animal Control about them, wondering whether they could be put up for adoption, we were told that feral cats weren’t suitable for adoption and would be destroyed. Not being ready to condemn these kitties, we think we’ll try to tame them.
To be continued…
