Mr. Guy, was a feral, buff colored cat. He wouldn’t come to me unless I sang softly and as if by his curious nature he couldn’t resist. I would lie on our gravel driveway by the big mud puddle and I would sing. Mr. Guy would sit by me and let me pet his head. Looking in his eyes, I swear he loved to listen to me. If I stopped singing, he would leave. I felt like a siren.
He disappeared from the farm like so many ferals did. People were always dropping off their unwanted pets there. At one time we had 32 cats. 32… That’s a lot.
I remember walking into the workshop and there were 3 momma cats giving birth. A total of 18 kittens were born that day. I made up some boxes and divvied up the kittens to each momma. I loved this. I loved cats; and more so, I loved the kittens. Every time we had kittens I would steal them from their Mommas an put them in my pockets. My Momma would make me put them back. The Momma cat would always move her litter to a different hiding place. I would secretly watch where she went and steal them again the next day. I was a real pain to those cats.
I remember Smokey, and Momma Cat, Fatty, Panda, Snowball and all the others that never even got a name.
Smokey had triplets of pure grey. As the triplets got older, one was always getting into mischief. He had broken his tail and it was a gnarled mess. My Pop said it had to come off. He had me get the hatchet and peroxide. I carried the cat into the garden where my Pop had a log he was going to use as a chopping block. He told me to not let go. I couldn’t watch. I held that kitten tight. CHOP! I winced; the cat squirmed. Pop poured peroxide on the stump. I didn’t let go. When Pop said, I released that cat and it ran. I cried, I didn’t think I would ever see him again, but I did. The tail removal was a success. I will tell you more another time about what happened to my 32 cats; but that can wait until another day.