Looking out my Backdoor: And the cat came back

I consider myself a pretty practical person. Yet I find myself incredibly sad, from time to time, mourning the death of Cat Ballou. I had an opportunity several weeks ago to adopt a new kitten from Ballou’s mother’s latest litter.

“No. I leave in two months to see my family. It wouldn’t be right for me to take a new kitten and then abandon her for several weeks.” See, practical.

Yesterday morning Nancie phoned. “Can you come over to visit?” My cousin was leaving the next day, back to Washington. We had already made plans for me to spend a few hours with her, so her call surprised me.

Surprised, that is, until I walked through her gate and saw a rag, a bone and a hank of hair lapping milk from a dish on Nancie’s patio. “Nancie, you are a sneaky, sly one.”

I sat down, lowered my hand and twiddled my fingers. The scrawny cat came over and nuzzled into my fingers, leaped into my lap, stuck her nose up to breathe my breath, settled into a circle on my lap, and purring, fell asleep.

“I can’t take her. I leave in two weeks.” The other three women on the patio nodded their heads. I smelled a sinister plot.

I’m no expert on guessing age but this feline was gangly legged, what I call a teen-ager, still more kitten than cat. “And, she stinks.”

“Let’s bathe her,” and matching action to words, Nancie jumped up, got a basin of warm water, a shampoo and towel. Next thing you know, the cat was in the water, limp in my cousin’s hands, getting a good scrub. I took her in the towel to sop up the water.

She obviously had been handled, by children. She didn’t object to any indignity. I’ll bet some little girl dressed her in baby clothes.

The cat, just as obviously, had been lost, abandoned, chased away, or somehow on her own for a couple weeks, at the least. She had appeared at Nancie’s door, starved, with several small scratches and a larger wound on her hind leg, was no doubt wormy and maybe mangy, her coat beyond cartoon scruffy.

To add to those indignities, the poor thing is ugly. She’s part Siamese, part calico. She has splotches of gray, tan and black on her white body, with yellow markings on her ears and kinked Siamese tail. Blue eyes, of course. She was not one to elicit, “Oh, you poor, poor, pitiful thing, come home with me.”

Despite my hard heart, I took her home. Fed her. Made a bed with a Mexican blanket in a large animal crate, smeared Bag Balm on her owies, and held her most of the afternoon.

Cat, dishes and bedding are relegated to patio. At dusk I went inside and closed my door. I figured if the cat was still there in the morning, I probably own a cat.

This cat has been around people. She’s not a yowler. We both had a peaceful night. She greeted me with purrs, weaving through my legs when I went out in the morning to feed her.

I leave in two weeks. If she is still here when I get back in October, then a cat owns me. By then, I’ll know her name.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].