Early Sunday, on Father’s Day, my daughter and I awoke to a distressing break from our normal morning routine, which typically begins with a changing of the guard at the kitchen door as our dog and our cat tentatively pass each other in opposite directions. The dog went outside as usual, but Wompus, our smallish, nine-year-old black cat, was nowhere to be seen, failing to return from his usual nocturnal rounds.
This in itself would not have been so alarming if not for the evidence of a commotion throughout our property. A jerry-rigged section of fence had been pushed over from the outside, apparently ripped from its posts; paw marks were clearly visible where the moss appeared to have been scraped at high speeds from what passes for a front lawn; and the “bee cooler” had been knocked several feet from the side of the house, the lid having slammed shut on the angry hive inside. (Yes, we have Coleman cooler filled with bees… but that’s another story.) For her part, the dog sniffed ferociously throughout the crime scene, occasionally peeing on invisible scraps of evidence, an obvious sign of unwanted canine intruders.
All this, combined with recent news of cat-killing coyotes in Seward Park, led us to immediately fear for the worst. I kept reassuring my daughter that it was too soon to jump to conclusions, that the cat would sometimes come home a little late, but that hadn’t really happened in years, and I never really believed it. I followed the dog for a while, hoping at least she might sniff out the remains, but nothing. By noon my daughter had dug a small grave for the cat’s spirit, and tearfully marked it with a stone.
When you adopt a cat from the animal shelter they make you promise to keep it indoors, sternly repeating the grim statistic that the life expectancy of outdoor cats—exposed to disease, cars, and wild animals—is fully half the 14-year average span of those that live their lives entirely indoors. Wompus was a Christmas kitty, and I honored my promise through the winter and spring, but as the sun came out during the early days of summer, so gradually did the cat. At first he just joined us in the garden, before eventually enjoying longer yard adventures on his own. But his annoying, relentless, door-side yowling, and growing proficiency as a mouser, soon earned him permanent in-and-out privileges.
We loved Wompus, and always understood that our permissiveness would likely cut his life short, but it seemed to me a reasonable quality of life trade-off. I had previously owned an indoor cat, from ages 11 through 25, a beautiful calico who proved as neurotic and bored as she was pampered and beloved. As affectionate and playful as cats can be, they are also natural born killing machines, thus locking them indoors condemns them to a life that runs counter to their very nature. I found it impossible to do this to Wompus, especially against his very loudly expressed will.
Wompus had a job—to rid my garden of rats and other rodents—and he joyfully executed his mission with brutal efficiency. On one fall morning alone, after setting the clocks back for daylight savings, we let the cat in to discover five rats laid out by the back door… an incident that came to be mythologized in our family as the “Fallback Massacre.”
And now the predator had become prey, which I told myself was a more noble death for a hunter—a circle of life kinda thing—than being crushed by a car… and far quicker than that of my childhood cat who at the ripe old age of fourteen simply stopped eating, slowly starving herself before dying in my arms, a veterinarian’s needle stuck in her leg. Nine years old—two years past the average life expectancy of an outdoor cat. But at least it was a happy, productive, cat-like nine years, we consoled ourselves.
And so depressed and wracked with guilt (I could have heeded the coyote warnings, though I don’t live all that close to the park, and we’ve heard rumors of coyotes before), I sat down at my computer to write Wompus an appropriate memorial… when in he walks through the open back door, disheveled and agitated and six hours late, but surprisingly, very much alive.
What really happened in those early morning hours we’ll never know, though the physical evidence, the cat’s sudden reluctance to head outdoors, and his renewed nervousness around our dog (who has a more than passing resemblance to a coyote) suggest that our original supposition might not be far off the mark. For now Wompus will remain indoors, at least at night, but once his PTSD wears off and his late-night demands for egress once again escalate into a struggle between life and sleep deprivation, no doubt he’ll return to his usual nocturnal routines, perhaps wiser and more wary, but with every passing year a little slower and less agile. Some might argue with my decision to let him choose life over longevity… but not my cat.
After the jump, the memorial I had planned to post in celebration of Wompus’ life and death, a poem he had inspired me to write for my daughter back in 2002: “The Little Black Cat’s Big Catch.”
The Little Black Cat’s Big Catch
©2002 by David GoldsteinBy a pale yellow house, in a green garden patch,
A little black cat was stalking his catch.
He crouched in the grass. He was perfectly still.
As he patiently waited for something to kill.And when that unfortunate something came by,
The little black cat, in the blink of an eye,
Would pounce on his prey. By the neck he would seize it,
He’d toss it, and twist it, and taunt it, and tease it,
Until that unfortunate something had died.
Then the little black cat would saunter inside,
He’d have a light snack, take a nap on the floor,
Then he’d go back outside… and he’d kill it some more.Yes, hunting is nasty and brutish, it’s true,
But the cat is a cat, and that’s what cats do.He hunted for beetles, for bugs and for bees,
For butterflies fluttering by on the breeze.
He hunted for mice, and for rats, and for squirrels
(With occasional swipes at little blonde girls.)
He hunted whatever might happen his way,
But the little black cat had a favorite prey.
Yes, he liked hunting bugs, and he liked hunting rats.
“But I love hunting birds!” purred the little black cat.“You see, mice,” said the cat, “Are too easy to kill.
Once or twice might be nice, but thrice? Where’s the thrill?
And Bugs? One good swat and your fun just goes splat.
Squirrels? They climb trees… but then, so can a cat.
And the rats? Well, they’re found much to close to the ground,
Whereas birds,” he observed, “Turn you… which ways around!”“Birds walk on the ground! Birds fly through the air!
One moment they’re here and the next they are there!
You see a bird perched by the raspberry plot,
So you leap where he is… but you land where he’s not!
You climb up a tree, and what have you found?
The birds have all gathered beneath on the ground!
So you jump to the ground, and the very same minute
You land ‘neath the tree: the birds are now in it!
A bird is a challenge that makes the pulse quicken.
And to top it all off: it tastes just like chicken!”Yes, birds are not easy to catch, that is true,
But the cat is a cat, and that’s what cats do!He caught bluejays and bluethroats and bluebirds and blackbirds
And lovebirds and ladybirds, songbirds and quackbirds,
And partridges, parakeets, parrots, and pigeons,
And woodcocks and wagtails and warblers and wigeons.
There wasn’t a species of bird in the garden
The little black cat had not sunk his teeth hard in.But there was, thought the cat, one bird he’d not caught.
And the cat grew distraught when he thought that he ought.
For the bird that he sought circled high overhead
With razor sharp claws, that could slice a cat dead!
It’s wings spread like storm clouds; it’s eyes, the cats say,
Could pinpoint a whisker a mile away!
No cat ever dare try to snare such a catch,
For the mighty bald eagle was more than his match.But…
As the eagle soared high, the cat lay beneath,
Picking a chickadee out of his teeth,
And watching, and waiting, and wishing so hard
That the eagle might swoop down and land in his yard.
“If I’d only the chance…” the little cat mewed,
“I know I could catch him; I know what I’d do:
I’d pounce and I’d bounce and I’d swipe and I’d swat;
The feathers would fly, but the eagle would not!
I’d taunt him and tease him; he’d caw and he’d holler;
Then I’d finish him off: one last notch in my collar!”Now, the cat told himself “Yes, I know it’s absurd
That a little black cat should chase such big a bird.
But you only live once. Well… nine lives, at best.”
So he took a deep breath, and he puffed out his chest,
And he walked through the gate, out the yard, on his quest.Yes, that cat could be stubborn, and that is a fact,
But the cat is a cat, and that’s how cats act.The bald eagle regally circled the city:
A dangerous place for a little black kitty,
Who foolishly followed, his eyes focused sky ways,
‘Cross freeways and throughways and parkways and highways,
He followed through hollows, up hills and down valleys,
Through backyards and frontyards and side streets and alleys.
He’d stop at a Starbucks each half-block or so,
And order a latté: “Whole milk, hold the joe.”
Then he’d run back outside, lick the foam from his face,
Turn his eyes to the sky and continue the chase.And just when the cat felt his paws start to ache,
The bald eagle turned towards a park by the lake.
Two hundred feet up, in the crown of a tree,
In a bird’s nest the size of a small S.U.V.,
The little black cat saw the eagle set down.
So he bleary-eyed started to climb towards the crown.Up, climbed the cat, towards the bald eagle’s nest,
But the critters he passed, they all laughed at his quest.
They snickered and sniggled and giggled with glee:
One squirrel laughed so hard… it fell out of the tree!
“Go on, laugh!” Spat the cat, as he climbed towards his quarry,
“I’ll catch that bald eagle, and then you’ll be sorry!
You’ll find out first hand, what a black cat can do;
First you’ll eat your words… and then I will eat you!”
Then he dug in his claws, without pause, without rest,
And climbed up the tree ’til he came to the nest.He peeked in the nest, and what did it hold?
But a baby bald eagle, not quite ten weeks old!
“How cute!” thought the cat, of this pleasant surprise.
Still, an eagle’s an eagle, whatever the size.
“And she’ll make a cute snack, ’till her mama comes back.”
Laughed the cat, as he lazily launched his attack.He pounced and he bounced and he swiped and he swatted,
He tossed it and teased it and pushed it and prod it.
But though he was fast, the eaglet was faster,
And quickly his victory turned to disaster,
For just as the cat had the bird in his paws,
She stuck out her cute—but razor-sharp—claws,
And caught unprepared, unawares, and off balance,
The cat was soon trapped in the baby bird’s talons.Well,
The cat was embarrassed, for “Who ever heard…”
Thought the cat, “Of a cat being caught by a bird?!”
So he started to claw, and to gnaw, and to scratch,
But he couldn’t break free: he was caught by his catch!
No longer the hunter, his fortunes reversed,
The little black cat prepared for the worst.
But the bird didn’t tease him or toss him around:
She just opened her beak up — and gulped the cat down!
She let out a chirp… then a burp… then a holler,
Then coughed up a furball, some bones… and a collar.Yes, hunting is nasty and brutish, it’s true.
But the eagle’s an eagle, and that’s what they do.Now the green garden patch by the pale yellow house
Is a very safe place for a rat or a mouse.
The bugs in the garden now roam it in herds.
And the raspberry plot? It’s been picked clean by birds.
And alone in the grass sits the little blonde girl
Where her little black cat had once hunted for squirrels.
But the girl doesn’t swipe, and she doesn’t give chase.
She just sits there… and wipes a few tears from her face.
For although she’d occasionally drawn his attack,
She knew the cat loved her. And she loved the cat back.And there in the garden, lonely and sad,
The little blonde girl was found by her dad.
He held out his hands, and what did he hold?
But a little black kitten, not quite ten weeks old!
It purred in her ears. It nipped at her nose.
Then pounced on a beetle it found at her toes.
They watched as it clumsily hunted its prey,
And playfully chased the girl’s sadness away.And when the girl smiled, her dad smiled too.
For the dad, is a dad. And that’s what dads do.
And for all you bird lovers out there, no, my cat was never much good at catching birds. Though in his younger years he had aspirations.
I enjoyed the essay.
Our cat, Tsonokwa, quickly disabused us of any intent to keep her inside.
Tsono’s prey appears to be crows. When she leaves the house, the black birds sound an alarm followed by dive bombing Tsonokwa.
The pleasure of sleeping next to a Great Hunter is inexplicable.
Not a particularly big fan of cats and the wife is allergic to their fur but I do appreciate the benefits of a good mouser.
One good neighbor’s cat had my yard in his territory and kept out all the rats. Territorial as all hell to boot. He entertained us with many brawls with other cats. Once the neighbors moved away it didn’t take long before the rats showed.
I miss that cat to this day.
I was hoping to read a description of Goldy disemboweling Grover Norquist … but this’ll do for the nonce.
RonK @4,
I’m working on a post, but I’ll likely finish it on the train to Vancouver. However, Lee was there, so if he wants to post a description, he’s welcome.
I was too young to remember, but my mother always laughed about a cat we had that was so territorial, she once chased a german shepard out of the yard – riding on it’s back, claws dug into it’s hide, with the dog yelping all the way home.
@4: For now, BlatherWatch has posted a review with photos.
@5
I will be posting something this evening.
Bush Inflation Explodes!!
Associated Press reports:
“The Labor Department reported Tuesday that its Producer Price Index, which measures the costs of goods before they reach store shelves, shot up 1.4 percent in May. That was up from a modest 0.2 percent rise in April and marked the biggest increase since November.”
(Quoted under fair use.)
Roger Rabbit Commentary: 1.4% x 12 months = annual inflation of 16.8%. And remember, this metric doesn’t measure only food and energy inflation, this is what the inflation is in all wholesale goods across the entire spectrum of the economy. We can expect most or all of it to get passed on to consumers a few weeks or months down the road. This means several things:
1) It’s now inevitable that unions and other workers will demand higher wages to offset the rapid devaluation of the nation’s currency;
2) Those wage demands will force businesses to push prices even higher, triggering additional labor cost increases — this is what’s known as cost-push inflation, which is extremely hard to stop once it gets embedded in the economy;
3) The Federal Reserve now has no choice but to raise interest rates to prevent a 1970s-style Nixon-Ford stagflation;
4) Higher interest rates, while necessary to shore up the caving dollar and rein in soaring inflation, will put further downward pressure on the housing market and consumer spending, business investment, and financial markets; and lead to a sharp recession like the Reagan Depression of 1981-1982.
In other words, holy shit! If you think the economy is bad now, you ain’t seen nothing yet. America is in for real suffering. We may even see people living in Hoovervilles again.
And all because Bush wanted to spend $2 trillion on a recreational war and thought billionaires should enjoy the same tax rates as janitors and secretaries.
And you trailer-park rednecks enthusiastically voted for this …
Thanks for nothing, wingputz.
Goldy — can you train that thing to hunt Republicans? We have too many Republicans, and they carry toxic genes. We need more Republican population control. After all, Republicans are indistinguishable from common rats.
Interesting poem, btw. Cycles of life and all. That’s practically an epic!
4, 5 — I’ll venture a wild guess: Norquist is a smoother and more polished debater, having more experience at debating than Goldy, and therefore would seemingly win on points; except that a discerning, informed, and objective audience would notice that he has to tell lies to prop up his arguments, because his themes don’t hold water. And, I would further imagine that his pedantics suffer from a certain plastic inconsistency, such that it would be relatively easy for Goldy to catch him in several hypocrisies. You don’t need to have been there or heard Norquist speak to come to these conclusions; conservative dogmatics are boringly predictable. Dollars for donuts the guy is intellectually dishonest.
Is this some kind of metaphor about government? Is the eagle the government? Or the Dad? Or the cat?
If so, I so don’t get it.
Wyble @13,
Actually, there is a theme here that fits in well with Grover Norquist’s demand to be left alone.
The animal shelter insists that cats be kept indoors. If animal control were to pick up my cat, off my property, I would face a hefty fine to recover him. And yet I’m a scofflaw, allowing my cat to roam, despite the obvious risks to his welfare and the well-meaning ordinances to the contrary.
Score one for Grover.
I don’t believe you folks. A positively fantastic poem with classic style and great human interest and all you can talk is politics? Yellowpup, it’s you and me against the world. Move over Dr. Seuss, you’ve got some real competition here.
Absolutely loved that poem!
km @15,
Thanks. I’m proud of my poetry (even if rhyming verse is looked down upon these days) and don’t often have an opportunity to show it off.
What about letting your cat out in the evening but not feeding him until he comes in around 9 or 10 pm? We’ve been moving toward this approach.
Our cats are indoor/outdoor as well, we even have a special door, requiring a magnetic collar key fob, built into a wall for them. I share your attitude about quality vs. quantity of kitty life.
I’d sure like to know what they are up to sometimes though. You can buy a doggie GPS tracker for too much service cost. If they had a version small enough for a cat, I’d be tempted to use technology to vicariously live a predators life.
Shortly after I left for college, my mother found a small kitten in a mall parking lot, trying to take shelter from a thunderstorm under the cars, meowing in fear. It was white with blue eyes, and had oil smears from the cars, so my mother named her Cindy, short for Cinderella. She found out later that Cindy was completely deaf, apparantly a common genetic feature in white cats with blue eyes.
Now Cindy was an indoor/outdoor cat, and liked nothing more than enjoying hunting in the woods across the street from my house. On one occassion when I came home from college (one of my twice-a-quarter laundry/fill up on home cooking weekend trips), my mother asked me to go across the street and bring the cat home.
So here I am, in the woods across the street, thinking: how am I going to find this cat??? So I start by using the usual proceedure: calling “Heeeere, kitty, kitty, kitty….”, until I realized how foolish I was, trying to call to a deaf cat.
Fortunately, a white cat doesn’t hide very well, and I found her not long thereafter. But everytime I think I’m smarter than the average bear, I remind myself of the time I was trying to call the deaf cat in the woods….
Freaking great poem Goldy.
You should write a poem about your debate with Grover! Ha! Go read some Robert Service poems. Maybe “How McPherson held the floor” would provide some inspiration.
Great poem, Goldy, and glad your little friend is OK. I completely agree on the importance of letting cats just be cats. I have a 9-year old as well that recently developed kidney disease…because she got into some antifreeze or something?…perhaps…but if she didn’t go out and kill things she wouldn’t be the happy cat she is. She’s a cat, not an ottoman that eats, and if that means I risk not having her around quite as long as possible, well, ok. I’m giving her the best life a /cat/ can have!
Johnston @21,
Just remember that kidney failure was a symptom of the melamine tainted pet food last year. Any “gluten” in the ingredients on your cat food?
Johnston, think about someone/something other than your neglected cat. Be a responsible steward of your surrounding natural areas and respectful of the wildlife and those who care about maintaining biodiversity beyond feral cats. Man, that attitude is sooo “But I love my H3.” Impressive poem Goldy, hopefully 6 years later your daughter understands the difference between a beneficial, natural predator and an introduced, indiscriminate songbird/reptile/amphibian+ eliminator.
I had a cat when I was a kid that had gotten old and sick, and preferred to spend its final summer just sitting on our back porch, fairly immobile. But it still managed to catch and eat a bird, though it took three days for it to finally kill the damn thing. Or perhaps it was just a really intense friendship. To this day, my mother and I think that the bird mistook the cat for a big fat black-and-gray placemat out on the back porch…..
Remember looking out the front window to see Pete the Siamese in full pursuit of a german shepard. After about a count of five, he reapeared with two shepards chasing him. I swear he was smiling. He lived to a ripe old and cranky age.
Currently a patent leather mini panther with copper penny eyes is asleep on the couch. She’s an awsome hunter though she seemingly preferred to play with a mouse today rather than kill it. Still I expect to see her on the back of one of the local deer sometime, trying gamely to bring it down.
@22 Goldy: Yeah, I thought of that. None of the foods I gave her were among those recalled, although the neighbors give her a treat now and then, so it’s possible. I didn’t have the vet test to try and find the cause of the kidney disease, because the tests are expensive and wouldn’t change what we do to treat the problem. The vet thinks it’s likely genetic.
@23 Tom: Holy fucking crap! My cat is not neglected. She is loved and carefully cared for. She is not feral. She has a home and shares it with me happily. Yeah, she goes outside and “does what cats do” and kills mice and an occasional bird. I hear those species are real endangered! Yep, you are so right! My 5-pound kitty is just like an H3! O! I am a horrible human!!!
Goodness! You really need to put some things in perspective!
Yeah, talk to your vet about your “it’s more noble to let a cat get ripped to bits by a coyote…” nonsense. The guy who’s had to try to patch animals back together (if they’re lucky enough to live through an attack, or a close encounter with a car, etc.) after their owners failed them can disabuse you of that notion real quickly.
A cat is a domesticated animal. He’s no match for the threats that await him outdoors. All the romanticized fantasies in the world don’t change that simple fact. If you don’t want to take on the responsibility of keeping your pet safe from commonly known dangers, I’d suggest you settle for a stuffed animal. At least that way you can’t do any damage to a living being who’s counting on you to keep it safe.
If she gets attacked by a coyote and killed, it will be very sad, not noble. I’m not looking for nobility. The ignoble existence she would endure locked indoors 24/7 would be worse. That’s the point here. I think that is what was Goldy’s point in making the OP. She’s a cat. She needs to go out and play. I do the best I can for her, but ultimately I want her to be happy. My last cat went outside every day and died quietly in her sleep at 19 years old…of old age…so don’t tell me what I’m doing is so wrong. I hope she avoids misfortune, I think she will, but I’m not going to make her miserable to assure her ultimate safety.