Where Did You Come From?
It was more than three years ago when the small tortoise shell cat first appeared in our backyard. She was with another cat who has since disappeared. She was skittish, would not be touched, and got spooked by most anything.
Her left ear was “tipped,” meaning that at some point in her life she was scooped up from the street, spayed, given injections and then dumped. However, while still under anesthesia, the technician cut a bit off her ear to show the world that my semi-feral cat could not reproduce.
I have no idea if she was adopted out of a shelter and raised by an irresponsible owner or if she was always a cat of the streets. I do know that for a while the rental property behind our house was host to a succession of families until the property was eventually bought outright. One of the families featured a crazy couple of son-of-a-bitches who incessantly yelled at their pets. In any case, the dark, tortoise shell cat got the hell away from them as soon as she could. I can’t say as I blame her.
I don’t like cats
I must admit that I’m a “dog person.” I don’t gush when I see a cat. Then again, as I have gotten older, I am no longer much of a pet person. I had a dog for many years, I wrote about dogs for the American Kennel Club and other magazines, and on occasion I showed (“handled”) dogs at dog shows. That world, I may add, is thoroughly disgusting in my view. I needn’t get into it, but by and large, most people who show dogs don’t seem to like them very much.
But as far as cats are concerned, I could not, under any circumstances imagine going to a cat show. There are millions of feral, songbird-eating, caterwauling, slit-eyed creatures roaming our country, people so enamored with cats should snag one of them and give them homes. The idea of going to a dander-filled cat show, cooing over a Seal point or Persian with a bunch of other cooing, constipated owners is more than I could bear.
Nevertheless, old men who have not turned bitter, even old men who are writers, have a protective instinct and do not want to see harm come to living things. That is how it started with me and Marguerite.
First one house, then two
She started to warily hang around the house. I knew I would get sucked into something I did not necessarily want. What if she came to depend on me? What if she would need me?
Then again, the thought of this undersized, notch-eared, abused creature being alone, hungry and bullied played on my heart-strings. I well remember my first foray into the local supermarket to buy the cheapest food I could buy: inexpensive dry food and cheap canned food.
I put out the food for Marguerite and she loved it. She was ravenous. Over time, I upgraded the food just a bit and then I added a crushed cat vitamin.
Over the weeks of feeding, she would occasionally roll over on her back in front of me and make some light purring sounds. However, she wouldn’t be touched.
I became worried about her shelter, and took away the towel I stuffed in a drawer and replaced it with an “official” outdoor cat shelter. Then I bought insulated pads that were guaranteed to keep her warm. I didn’t like the fact that she was at ground level. There were two bullies in the neighbor: Cosmo and Teddy. But Teddy became so fat I doubt he can chase his tail.
All this time…
As I was in the process of upgrading Marguerite’s living quarters and improving her diet, she became more affectionate, allowing herself to get petted and sometimes brushed.
I was so moved to give her a new outdoor home with sturdy walls and a spiffy sloped roof. I insulated its interior. I took the old house and put it in the garden shed. Then, in an act of total insanity I bought a heated pad and then she had a house within a house plus the heated floor.
Another season passed and the little feral kitty (not so little anymore) started to eye our home. The official date was July 19, 2020 when Marguerite ventured into the house. And from that time forward she ventured into the house two or three times a day to get fed. We bought her a cat bed and then a nicer one, and she started napping in the house.
A Bitter Cold Night
Last evening, Denver was frigid. Marguerite decided to sleep in the house. I didn’t sleep very well. We turned off the lights and I expected her to go to the bathroom in the house. She didn’t. She seemed quite content sleeping through most of the night.
As the sun came up, she went back out to the yard to resume cat stuff.
However, this story isn’t about cats or Marguerite at all, but about me. Without a lot of melodrama, my own life was not too pretty and not so easy. I carry scars, much like a cat who was abused and then got disfigured.
It has taken me a long time to return to any semblance of ‘Home.’ I only knew that the one place where I could find solace was writing at my desk.
It has become 2022. This year I am working on two nonfiction projects plus my work for several clients. I guess I should be retired…long retired by now, but that is not the mission I have chosen for myself.
My mission is to write for as long as I have God’s Grace to write.
I have no idea how old Marguerite might be. My guess is 5, however, that is only a guess. She trusts few people, as do I. People have let me down. She is fearful and often jumps at shadows that aren’t there. Me too.
I am still not crazy about cats, but I realize that I cannot leave Marguerite. She is emblematic not that old men can care for animals, but in our own way, to care more deeply for ourselves.
Bruce H. Wolk (303) 725-5864
