There once were two barn cats whose job description can be completed in two words: eat rats. They were the property of Wilson and Lucas, two boys on the farm about eight years ago, so both boys and cats have grown up considerably.
At the same time, in the farm house lived a Schipperke named Suzie, whose primary rule in the house she ruled was: no cats.
About four years ago Suzie went to join her master, Joel, in that great beyond we all hope for but are not totally sure of, and the cats who never liked rats moved into the house. We named them Fred and George, both brothers and both orange. We do like cats here, but being more acquainted with dogs over the years we find Fred and George quite different and a bit unnerving.
The brothers have unique personalities and priorities. George is suspicious of everything, energetic and a good hunter, while Fred’s greatest joy in life is living in one uninterrupted somnambulant state. The only activity that arouses him is the filling of his ponderous tummy.
My daughter Sarah and I have agreed that though these pets won’t send out any alarm if something is amiss on the farm as the dogs historically (and hysterically) would, “The cats are amusing, Mom, you have to admit.”
Playful, startling, unpredictable, George can appear anywhere and anytime sitting sphinx-like on top of the bedroom dresser, inside a basket, on a shelf, in a closet or tucked on the lap of a cloth doll.
Predictable Fred sleeps on the chairs or in the sunny window box, often so soundly that I think he has died from overeating, which one day, like many of us, he will.
The only thing awakening him is a yowl from George. We recognize that sound as particularly meaningful, as does Fred. It’s not a feline “Hello, I’m here and aren’t you glad to see me” meow, but a dinner bell announcing “Suppertime, brother! Here’s your mouse or bird de jour.”
The feast begins and it’s not pretty. I wish there was some way to discourage cats from being cats but I bet they’ve been this way for a long time. I do hear folks share other kinds of cat tales, such as, “My cat eats your summer melons so that’s why I buy them,” or, “I can’t buy your flowers because my cat eats them.”
We did have a great cat, part of a feral litter that came with the farm when we purchased it in 1978. The kittens were wild and I wanted to bring them to the animal shelter right away. Of course, the children wanted to keep some or most of them so we compromised (not 50-50 but one-fifth) and they chose one to keep. He was playful and aggressive and they named him Louie. When it was time to get him neutered and I drove back to the vet office to pick him up, the vet explained that Louie had required spaying, not neutering. This announcement back on the farm brought forth amazement and the immediate changing of the cat’s name to Louise.
Louise was not only a good hunter, much to our alarm, but she had a decidedly sweet tooth. One Sunday morning we heard the telltale sound of “pounce” from the breakfast table to the floor and spied Louise rushing from the room, gripping in her teeth a small white paper bag containing our assorted bakery donuts.
She also knew when the Christmas plum chocolate pudding cake had emerged from the oven. I would bake it in a fluted bundt pan and turn it out upside down on the cake platter. Too often, while it cooled, Louise would nibble on the “fluted” part.
She lived a long life among all the family dogs from whom she received respect. She knew how to whack them across their chops if they got too rough with her.
Fred and George would have benefitted by a little of Louise’s tough love example. It’s a work in progress with the new puppy next door, training him to move gently, respectfully, among those unpredictable orange furry pets sharing space on his farm.
Renee Kiff weeds and writes at her family farm in Alexander Valley.
