CATS, Not The Musical

It’s day five and Sweetie Pie, the last of my feral cats, hasn’t turned up for supper. I’m fearing the worst. That cat is punctual as a habit and no matter the weather, she’s always at the front gate by 6:00. 

My heart sinks as I call her name for the umpteenth time and as I head back inside, resigned to the fact that she could be gone for good, I flash back to the first time I saw her in the alley behind my house. A tiny bundle of orange fur, her emerald, green eyes caught mine. She meowed with everything she had, which wasn’t much, and thinking this was my cue to pick her up, I reached for her. But before I could even get close, she sprinted under a chain link fence and back to the safety of the blue Victorian with the wraparound porch where she and her mother, a large orange tabby, camped out. 

By then I’d lived in the Nations for a decade and there had always been a rotating cast of feral cats on my block.  But most of them had died or wandered off and other than a couple of big, scared-up tomcats who came and went, the orange tabby and her adorable kitten were the last of the pack. But that was about to change.

“We got a cat! Isn’t she sweet?” My long-time neighbors reported excitedly as I trotted by one evening with my Great Pyrenees, Emily. 

“Wow,” I said in an un-wowlike voice. “Are you gonna get her spayed?”

“What’s that?” one of them asked.

“You know, get her fixed…so she can’t have kittens?”

They looked at each other and back at me. “Too late for that,” they laughed.

“Wow,” I repeated. What else could I say? I knew what was coming. 

Within weeks, six kittens had made their debut on the block and before you could say slam, bam, thank you ma’am those cats had been knocked up as well. As the number of feral felines grew to 18, so too did my determination to do something about them, and after securing advice and a few cat traps from a knowledgeable friend, my neighbors and I struck a bargain. They would trap the cats, and I would take them to the Pet Community Center in East Nashville where they’d be spayed and neutered for a small fee. We’d adopt out as many as possible and the rest would return to the neighborhood where they’d live out their lives in peaceful sterility.

Around this time the orange tabbies from the blue house migrated to my yard. which had a lot going for it. Not only was there a run-down shed where they could sleep but there was food on the regular. I named them Big Mama and Sweetie Pie (once you name them, it’s all over) and built them a feeding house I dubbed the Pussy Palace. 

But I wasn’t the only one on the block feeding and naming cats. Several neighbors came to the party and soon Tigger T and Scruffy Muffin, Cindy Clawford, Bob and Pennywise became a permanent part of the scene. But when a young tomcat with the eyes of a serial killer began to prowl around, the energy shifted from fun to fierce. Not only did he attack Big Mama constantly, but he hogged the food and sprayed everywhere he could. One evening while doing the dishes I got an uneasy feeling and when I looked up, there he was, standing on the fence, staring at me like he wanted to eat my face. It was then and there that I named him Zodiac. One of the new cat parents volunteered to drive him out into the country and release him, while another proposed a nefarious ending for the four-legged menace. But I settled for chasing him off, often with a hose on full blast, and eventually he got tired of the haters and moved on.

And then one day, a small, white kitten with startling green eyes appeared in my yard and insinuated herself into the pack. Except for her coloring she looked exactly like Sweetie Pie who’d birthed one white kitten the year before. And that cat had had a litter of two white kittens, which obviously made this precious girl Sweetie Pie’s granddaughter.  

I was smitten and naming her Mitzi, she quickly became my favorite. She was an impressive specimen. Not only did she come when I called her, but she could run from the back porch to the shed and dive through the window with the missing pane in five seconds flat. Still, I worried for her. She was tiny and white, which made her the perfect offering for a hawk in search of a snack. Bringing her inside seemed like the best solution. But Mitzi was not happy with this option and she promptly went into hiding for the next two months. 

I was so confused. She’d loved me on the outside and now she was terrified, not just of me but she’d become the unwitting roomie of a 110-pound dog whose bark echoed through the house like a loud, oncoming train. I knew she was alive as she ate and drank and used the litter box. But still, I was despondent. And as the Holiday season approached, and my friends and family asked what I wanted for Christmas I’d tell them, “All I want is for my cat to come out from under the couch.” 

And then one night I got my wish. I was sitting on the couch wrapping gifts when she zoomed out from under my legs and around the corner. “Mitzi! Mitzi! Mitzi!” I called out as she ran for her life. But for some reason, this time she turned and stared. After a few seconds, a look of recognition lit up her eyes and as if she’d just put two and two together, she turned and bolted towards me, jumping into my lap. It was a Christmas miracle, like catching Santa in the act of coming down the chimney or getting a dress from your mother that actually fits. 

As the years went on the herd of outside ferals continued to thin until it was just Big Mama and Sweetie Pie once again. Big Mama became more and more tame, letting me brush her and treat her for fleas and she started to accompany Emily and me on our evening walks, which amazed and delighted me and everyone who saw us. “She thinks she’s a dog!” I would grin at passersby like I was the coolest Pied Piper of all time. 

Two years ago, Big Mama reached the end of her surprisingly long life. She was at least 18, which is a remarkable feat for a feral cat, and I credit myself for that. But as heartbroken as I was about her passing, I was equally as worried about Sweetie Pie. She’d never known a world that didn’t have Big Mama in it, and I was afraid it would be the end of her as well. She kept her distance for several weeks but once her mourning period was over she showed up at the front gate every evening at 6:00, which became our new normal.

All of this reminiscing propels me to the front porch once more, and even though it’s nearly midnight I call Sweetie Pie’s name and wait for her response. Hearing nothing I give it one more go and then I hear her little meow which hasn’t changed one bit since that first day, 14 years ago. My heart leaps out of my chest as I run to open the gate.  “Sweetie Pie! Where have you been?” I coo. As she follows me up the steps to her food bowl I want to grab her up, hug her and never let her go. But I know she’d never allow that; she still hates to be touched, so I settle for leaving her alone to eat while I watch her from inside through a darkened window. 

One day, I know Sweetie Pie will leave me for real and cross the Rainbow Bridge where she’ll be reunited with Big Mama and the other feral friends who have passed this way over the years. But tonight she’s still alive and well, contentedly tucking into her food, the last of the feral cats on my block, that I have known and loved.