WOODY

One morning the log on the very top of our woodpile rolled over, but I wasn’t concerned. To me the world is a freak show until I put my glasses on. Seeing a log roll over is no weirder than seeing a giraffe who turns out to be a grain elevator. It’s an easy mistake.

grain elevator                                      giraffe

Someday I will donate these eyes to a medical school. They demonstrate farsightedness, astigmatism, and misalignment all in one package. My glasses are trifocals with prisms added to urge my eyes to peer at the same object at the same time.

But I don’t need sharp focus to get through breakfast, so I was going au naturale, optically speaking. When the log sat up and stretched, however, I ran for my specs. Sitting on the woodpile was a long haired cat, the color of a fresh apricot. 

The countryside is overrun with feral cats. As you drive along, hundreds of little green sparkles light up the ditches. If you slow down, they flee into the fields, scurrying down the cornrows. Most are in very poor condition, their eyes drippy, their coats mangy. Farm cats and feral cats are not like those prissy cats in television ads. They live on what they catch, and they breed mercilessly. Most end up wild and desperate. Believe what you read about not being able to tame a feral cat––you don’t have time or immunizations enough to make them love you.

But Woody was gorgeous and unusually calm. Maybe he wasn’t a true feral cat, just a lost cat. He was a big, beautiful specimen, and I was pretty sure my husband’s cat allergies could be managed with medication. I opened the door and tiptoed onto the porch, waving a slice of prosciutto in front of me. The cat leaped into the woods and disappeared.

I left a bowl of cat food by the woodpile every evening for a week. It’s not true that I used our best china, just a little bowl that had belonged to my mother-in-law.

There was a tarp over part of the woodpile, and Woody spent his nights underneath it. Every morning he climbed onto the tractor and surveyed the world. He always ate the food, but I couldn’t crack the door without him bolting.

Woody

I read all about feral cats. Undeterred, I borrowed a live trap. It was winter, and I didn’t see how he could withstand the sub-zero temperatures and blizzards. For several days, the food disappeared from the cage, but the cage was always empty, the door not sprung.

One morning Woody didn’t appear on the woodpile, so I suited up and trudged out in the snow. He was in the cage, trapped. As I approached, he reared up and growled at me. It wasn't a low "don't mess with my catnip mouse" growl; it was an "I'll rip your arm out by the roots" growl.

I carried the caterwauling cage into the house, past my stunned husband, past the horrified dogs, and down to the basement. Woody was warm and safe at last. I spoke softly to him, reassuring him he was going to be loved and cared for. He responded to this, yes he did––by repeatedly throwing himself at the walls of the cage, screaming, and flashing his canine teeth at me. I went upstairs to give him time to ponder his options.

Next morning, Woody was quiet and calm when I approached. That warm bed and good breakfast did the trick. Ha! I’m good at this. Those pessimists on the Internet should be ashamed of themselves. The trick is to do everything gradually.

I put a finger between the slats and gently stroked Woody’s toe. He remained calm––a good sign––so I stroked his  paw. I withdrew my shredded, bloody fingertip and made a mental note to find some recorder music without any C-sharps in it for next week's quartets.

So Woody went free, disappearing from the woodpile and the neighborhood. I did see him one more time, but I shall spare you the details. It’s so much worse than you are imagining. (see entry for February 13, reference coyote incident)

The important thing is that Woody gave me a lesson in acceptance. Let nature be. Que sera, sera. 

Tuesday when I was leaving for the airport, there appeared in our field a sleek black cat. In view of the Woody episode, I drove right past him. On the other hand, when I slowed down, he didn’t exactly run away. Maybe little Midnight isn't really a feral cat––the future’s not ours to see.

For information on the Feral Cat Coalition:

http://www.feralcat.com/taming.html