The cat wanders past looking quite pleased with herself. After a two-day absence she has returned. The prodigal kitty, fattened on songbirds and squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits. She lumbers, belly hanging low, mewing to herself a lullaby. I look out the screen door before locking it and spy the rodent head she left, a gift, no doubt, and peace offering after her wild outdoor adventures.
I know we shouldn’t let her out. Our village has an
ordinance forbidding cats from roaming. But she was wild when she chose us and
we simply cannot convince her to remain indoors. She darts between my legs when
I carry laundry out to hang it on the line. She climbs the screen and yowls,
demanding to be set free. She has a
life, after all. Social engagements to keep. Lovers to meet. Rodent populations
to control.
Soon she will mother her third litter of kittens. I promise
myself I will take her to the vet to have her ‘fixed’. But I’ve broken that
promise twice before. I love the blind eyed babies she bears. Their early
wobbling steps. Their fierce need to nurse. The way they quickly fluff out.
Their endless curiosity and antics. They make the world a bit less lonely. They
bring me joy. They are my family too.
(Memories of Misty, one of our family cats from my childhood.)
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