When I was a child, probably about seven years old, my family acquired a cat named Misty. She was beautiful, sleek, short haired, gray with white paws, and I loved her with my whole heart.
She came to us as a kitten and over the years, brought
several litters of her own into the world. This was during the 70s when cats
were allowed to roam at will, and she apparently had several suitors. These
tiny babies armed with sharp teeth, needle claws and heart-rending mews had us
all wrapped around their tiny little paws. My sisters, brother and I wanted to
keep each kitten from each litter and mourned them when they left for other
homes.
Misty was a prolific hunter. We’d see her stalk across the
yard in pursuit of a rabbit or mole or chipmunk. She’d sometimes surprise us
with trophies from her conquests, like a chipmunk head or finch corpse on the
back doorstep.
As much as she liked to be outside, when she wanted in, she
wanted in immediately. There were times when she climbed the screen on my
bedroom window demanding admittance. If I didn’t see her right away, she began
yowling, all the while glaring at me.
Eventually Misty exhausted her nine lives and left us for
kitty heaven. I like to imagine her there, reunited with all her babies, and
hunting to her heart’s content.
