Perspective: Confessions Of A Cat Person
I never thought of I’d be a cat person until Onyx wandered onto our lower field. Bruce and I were pleased to finally have a cat to control the mice and rats. Onyx edged closer to the barn. He acted two faced, sitting on a stump and hissing. Then he’d meow like he wanted to be friends.
He climbed up on the haybale when I drew water from our spigot for the horses. I’d pet his chin and whiskers. Onyx became such a good friend, I could call him back from a 100 yards away.
Bruce said no cats in the house. My friend Wanda said, “Onyx will win. Just you wait.”
But when his hind leg was skinned down to bone and tendon, we took him to the vet, figuring we’d put him to sleep. After all he was a barn cat. But she called saying they cleaned up his leg. “He’s a nice cat. He’s worth saving.”
My life had blown up when Onyx came in the house—my horses were fighting, my spring semester teaching had been from hell, and my beloved dog, Nate, wore out and died. The vet pushing us to heal him was wiser than my instinct to give up on a free barn cat. Onyx came in the house as a friend who crawled onto our laps and settled there, offering a kind of comfort only a cat, freely choosing you, can give. Wanda was right. Onyx won. And then came hissing Bitsy, and standoffish Smudgie and sweet Kali Zoo.
I’m Katie Andraski. That’s my perspective.