Though both of us are animal lovers, my husband Oliver is particularly fond of cats. In 2015 we had lost our last animal child and decided that with our frequent trips out of town, this was not the time to formally adopt any more needy pets.
So when a stray cat or two began to show up in our yard that fall, Oliver figured befriending them was how we could enjoy some of the benefits of a pet without the full responsibility of vet bills, litter boxes and cat hair on our socks.
He began putting out dry catfood on our deck and going out when they came by to initiate a friendly relationship with his new visiting pets.
“Pet” isn’t exactly the right word for these feral cats, though. “Free-loaders” is a more accurate description. They seemed glad enough to have the food, but not one of them would get close enough to let us touch it, much less “pet” it. I got the feeling that if we did put out a hand of welcome, we would draw back a bloody nub.
I named all of them, of course, so we could keep them straight.
“Buster came by today,” I’d report about the big black cat, “but I didn’t see Butterbean.” “I saw Stella, but she didn’t stay to eat,” Oliver would reply.
One of the cats was smaller and a bit more approachable. She was white with tortoise shell markings on her head and tail. She wouldn’t let us touch her, but she would sit and listen politely while we talked to her, and she would perch outside the sun room door and gaze in as if to say, “When’s dinner?”
Oliver grew particularly fond of her and began to put out canned food just for her when she jumped up on the deck. We called her Sadie.
She seemed a cut above the other cats—intellectually and morally superior to the half-breed tabbies and skulking toms that passed through the backyard on their way to a catfight or a roll in the hay somewhere.
Oliver envisioned the day when Sadie would jump up on his lap and thank him for the good food and the place he made for her to sleep in the shed.
But one weekend all our hopes were dashed. I looked out on the deck to see Sadie making eyes at a big ugly tom cat she had led to the dinner bowl. He wasn’t one of our regulars. He was obviously a thug and a fugitive from the law.
I immediately named him “Ugly Cat” and watched him wolfing down the food we had put out for Sadie.
And he was u-g-l-y! He had semi-Siamese coloring that had gone wrong. His fur was wadded up in places, as if he had just escaped a yard brawl. One eye was swollen shut, and he kept his ears flattened in a cat juvenile delinquent position. He didn’t sit, he crouched at the food bowl.
Sadie sat by quietly while he ate. When he finished, not bothering to wipe his face or wash his paws, he stalked toward her. She turned her back on him, and I thought, Good girl! Give him his walking papers, Sadie! Show him how morally superior you are!
A moral demonstration was not what Sadie had in mind, however. She sidled up to a deck chair and rubbed her face on it, glancing back to make sure Ugly was watching. She twined herself around the chair leg a time or two in a pretty good cat imitation of a pole dance.
Ugly Cat didn’t even seem interested, but this obviously wasn’t his first cat rodeo. He knew a come-on when he saw one.
And she gave him a cat come-on, stretching, flipping her tail back and forth enticingly, mincing along to see if he would follow.
Sadie! You’re better than that, I thought as I watched her lead him along. The big oaf followed her at a distance, grinning impudently.
When Oliver realized what was going on, he said, “Where did she get that thing?” He rushed out and flapped his hands at U. C. “Get away!” he commanded.
Ugly Cat just flattened his ears more and narrowed the one eye that still worked. Then he turned around as if to say, “That all ya got, Sucker?”
“Oh, Sadie, you dumb cat,” I mumbled under my breath. “Don’t you see he’s a cheater? Don’t you realize he’ll use you and leave you to pick up the pieces—uh, kittens? After all we’ve done for you, are you going to turn into a cat slut?”
Apparently, the life of a cat slut sounded pretty good to her right then. She tossed her tail, arched her back and turned the corner of the house, Ugly Cat slinking along behind her, smirking.
I had to remind myself that, like our human children, our fuzzy children also have to learn their own lessons.
I guess we’ll be seeing those fluffy little “lessons” following Sadie to the food bowl in about 65 days—Sadie Jr.—Ugly Jr.—Thug Jr.—and Slutty Sue.
