What Do Cats Know About Love?

This is a tiny chapter in my memoirs. You can comment on it if you would like to. I am particularly interested to hear if it makes any sense to you at all. Do I lose you in this convoluted musing about love?



What Do Cats Know About love?
By
Glee Bohanon

I wished for kittens, and they came to me. In my universe whenever I wish for a thing, it comes to me. I live in the expectant state that whatever I need is on its way, as in the Native American spirit dance “Horses are coming”. This time, it was kittens. All horse barns should have some cats – you know – for rodent control. The last of my cats was blind in one eye, rail thin, and spent sunshiny days staring at dark spots in the lawn. She was about 16 or 17 years old. I figured she deserved a warm spot by the fire at this stage of her life. She chose the neighbor’s hearth instead of mine; me who had cared for her and fed her all these years was rejected. I felt betrayed by an old cat suffering with dementia so bad she didn’t remember where she lived anymore. My neighbor took in that old, demented cat who wasn’t even hers. She bought soft food for her. She let her choose a warm place to sleep. She worried about her, and petted her when the cat allowed it. I was a little jealous of my neighbor who had a cat and I didn’t, and a lover, and I didn’t.

I hadn’t seen Kitty Kat for a day or two. Mary and I met in the driveway we share and I casually said “Have you seen Kitty Kat lately”?

Mary’s eyebrows pinched together “No, I haven’t. I hope she’s alright.”

“Me, too” I said.

Murphy, who always says he doesn’t like quadrupeds, was on his way back from the mail box. He said “I saw her prowling in the pasture. Here’s your mail.” He handed me some envelopes as he walked past us. He disappeared around the corner. A moment later, I heard the door to his apartment slam shut. Mary hurried off, and I was left there in the middle of the driveway, kitten-less.

One day the blacksmith came, and I mentioned to him that I wanted some kittens. I have had a crush on my blacksmith from the first day I met him about 30 years ago. He was married then, and so was I. We never mentioned this attraction, it wouldn’t be a good thing, but I think we both felt it. His wife died about five years before my Ed did. I still find Ron attractive, and I think he and I are friends. That’s all it will ever be, me, a client, and him, the blacksmith. He moved on in his life. He has a live-in girlfriend. Priscilla is a horse trainer. They have a big barn full of horses, Jack Russell terriers, and cats. There are so many cats there because Priscilla either can’t afford to get them neutered, or doesn’t want to. I think it’s the latter. I think she loves the perpetual batches of kittens. I think they are replacements for all the children she never had. She worries over them like she does over everything under her care. They get a warm box in the tack room when the mother cat doesn’t hide them where no-one can find them. They get food, and lots of petting, but that’s it. There is no money for medicine or shots. The kittens often don’t survive the rough environment of a commercial stable filled with more than thirty horses.

Ron said “Come on over and pick some out. We always have some extras.” We both laughed.

I said I would but I never found the time to go.

About six weeks later, it was time for the horses to get new shoes so I called Ron as I have been doing for thirty years, and left the message on his answering machine. I didn’t mention anything about kittens, just the usual thing about shoes for horses. He came on Saturday morning. I looked out my window and there his truck was out by the barn. I hurried out, and caught him up a horse. I put it in the cross-ties and he bent over to pick up a hoof. It was then that I noticed the wire chicken cage. There were three kittens in it huddled together in a corner, a grey one, a yellow one, and a white and orange one. Their eyes were too large for their heads. Their hair stood straight out. They didn’t weigh as much as my empty coffee mug and weren’t any bigger than that, either.

Ron said “I didn’t know which one you would like, so I brought you three to choose from. They’re all from the same litter.” There was a laugh hidden in his voice, and his bright blues eyes sparkled. When he left, I had three kittens. “Three little kittens, they lost their mittens” was all that I could think of. Ron brought me three little kittens. I thought it was a small token of love, three mewing balls of fur needing care and attention.

When Murphy saw the kittens he grumbled “Just what we need.” It sounded cynical and sarcastic.

I was a little miffed about his surly attitude. I said “would you get me the big dog cage from the basement? I want to set them up out here in the barn. They are barn cats. This will be their home. They’ll grow up and hunt mice and rats and such and keep rodents out of the barn.”

He allowed that perhaps they would have a practical use. He reminded me that he doesn’t like quadrupeds. He thought Billy, the golden retriever, was at least somewhat intelligent, but cats, well don’t expect him to care about cats. I said I didn’t care what he thought about cats. They were my cats not his. He brought the cage. I put it in an empty horse stall where it would be out of the way. I could shut the stall door, and the dogs wouldn’t be able to terrorize the kittens. I wanted them to grow up brave and bold. You raise bold kittens by never letting them feel fearful. I put some water, an old dish pan filled with sawdust and a pile of old towels in the cage.

I said to Murphy “I need to go shopping and get litter and proper kitten food. I wasn’t expecting kittens today.”

“Suit yourself.” He said - or something. I couldn’t quite make it out. He grumbled it as he stalked out of the barn.

Over the next few days it became evident that the kittens were much younger than Ron thought they were. They could barely eat the dry food I had bought them. They were so light I thought that a good wind would carry them away like dandelion seeds. They wobbled when they tried to walk. They were infested with fleas and their ears had some ugly gunk in them. One of them had a nasty case of diarrhea and his bottom was raw. Murphy said he would take them out and drown them for me. I was horrified. I took them all to the cat vet. An hour later, I brought them back armed with ear medicine, worming solution and antibiotics. The orange and yellow one had a parasite that eats the lining of its intestine. It was doubtful he would survive. I had to catch each feral kitten three times a day and clean their ears and give them their medicines. I had to medicate all of them since the parasite is very contagious. The kittens did not appreciate my efforts. I tried several things, but I could not hold the squirming kitten and get the medicine down his throat. I asked Murphy to come out to the barn to help me catch them and to hold them while I gave them their medicine. They hissed and spat using their razor sharp claws and teeth as if in the fight of their lives. Murphy was better at catching them than I was. He stalked each one deftly – since they had learned how to squirm out of the cage, and hid all over the barn. He caught each one, wrapped it in a towel and cradled it in his arms. He complained the whole time and the kitten struggled to escape while I cleaned its ears and gave it medicine with a syringe.

The whole time Murphy grumbled “I don’t like quadrupeds. I don’t know why any one would want a cat, never mind three of them.”

I said “My barn feels empty without some cats in it, and besides, they catch rodents.”

When we were finished he stalked away to his apartment and slammed the door.

Each morning and night without fail he fed the horses and brought them carrots. He took my dog for walks and threw the ball for him, and he came downstairs unbidden when it was time to give the kittens their medicine.

Murphy said he did not love me and never would. I looked at his face as he ministered to my pets - pets he said he didn’t like, and I knew. Love comes in many shapes and sizes. Sometimes it’s three little kittens in a chicken cage, or a golden Retriever, or a drunken Irish poet who holds your kittens with tender hands even when he says he doesn’t like them.