Cats: Not the Musical

I dreamt of cats last night.

Memories of my life from infancy until I left for college are punctuated by a vast menagerie of outdoor animals with names such as the ponies, Peppy, Topsy, Squirt, and Buck.  Likewise, there were Ephram (Red Angus) and Charlotte (Charolais) the Bucket Calves, Sweetheart the Milk Cow and her calf Babe.  Newt, Jon, and Yeller were Saddle Horses, while Big, Little, Lucy, and Belle were Belgian Draught Horses. The goat carried the inspired appellation, Mr. Goat.  My family conspired to help me keep the nest of a brooding hen secret from my grandfather so that we could have chicks.  These memories are accompanied by a numberless variety of house pets: Rastus, Duke, Spot, and Speck were dogs.  Bonkers, Evenrud (thus named on account of his sonorous purr), Garf, Paintbrush, and Cooter were cats.  Poe was a crow.  Also assembled in my memory are those whose presence I recall but whose names are lost to the mists of time; a runt pig, several rabbits, as a high schooler, an albino ferrit, and briefly, a peach face lovebird who became a victim to one of the cats.   I have, by dint of genetics on both sides of my lineage, a congenital weakness for animals in general, and, I admit, for cats in particular.  

I recall with clarity the first time Dad took me to the shed to show me where a cat had hidden her litter of kittens.  Allowing me to hold one, and warning me not to squeeze them, I was immediately addicted.  From then on, I was the official finder and tamer of kittens and protector of all creatures feline on the ranch.  It broke my heart when any of them died.  I resented all attempts to give them away.  To the great dismay of my mother and grandmother, as far as I was concerned, all cats were welcome to be house cats.  Generally, I was a cat whisperer.  Through eager and thorough ministration, these ferocious killers were wooed into furry little beggars.  On occasion, having failed to find a litter soon enough, I was required to trap them in the live trap or chain link fence surrounding Grandma's garden.  My mother delights in recalling me shouting for her to fetch me a pair of leather gloves as I attempted to extract one of the Wiley rascals from said fence.

All cats, as my nieces can confirm, are named fluffy.  Like Hispanic women, most of whom are traditionally christened Maria followed by a second name by which they are commonly called (e.g. Maria Pilar, Maria Dolores, Maria Consuela), a cat might be called by another name, but his first name is Fluffy.

Since leaving home for college, animals have been less present in my life.  My interludes with them are largely confined to visits home and to the homes of others who welcome such creatures into their houses.  At regular intervals I have considered getting a cat or dog my rectory, but my life is no life for a dog.  I travel too much, sleep in strange beds too often, and am usually too tired to have something else that needs my attention in my house.  A cat would be easier, but I would still need to provide some level of care for it, they can be destructive, too many people have allergies to them, they do not handle moving well, their shedding is rather incompatible with a black wardrobe, and it is costly to a parish to clean up after a rectory has housed a cat.  So, I have never had my own.

But, as I suggested above, I dreamt of cats last night.  These somnial pursuits were precipitated by an encounter with a grey tabby ambulating across campus as returned from the library last evening.  I've caught glimpses of her (I suspect a pussy cat, but cannot confirm it) previously.  She doesn't appear to be especially frightened of people but is not wont to approach them closely.  She seems to have sense around cars, and is neither fat nor thin.  My attempts to gain her trust and pet her were met with typical feline disdain, and, as cats often do, she disappeared tracelessly when I tried to see where she would choose to escape.  Feral cats do not last long in big cities.  That I have seen her more than once suggests she belongs to someone who lives nearby.  I could, I suspect, with a little milk and some patience, befriend her.  Or, failing that, I have a pair of leather gloves in my car.