The next cat came from my mother-in-law’s yard.  She too fed cats and felt compassion for hungry and homeless animals.  This was her redeeming quality. The screen door on her small back porch was always left slightly open so cats could get to the feeding bowls.  On occasion an opossum would appear and need to be chased away, once in a while, a skunk, but nobody ever disturbed a skunk.  One cat, a regular visitor, was a beautiful long haired calico.  On a summer evening as my husband Buddy walked up the driveway, she came flying across the tops of two cars and jumped into his arms.

    Callie was always very gentle.  Her almost perfect beauty was marred only by one eye being slightly larger than the other.  Soon after Callie was spayed, she needed further surgery.  Her recovery was slow but eventually she rebounded and settled into the household.  She always liked high places.  They represented safety.  When she ventured down, often other cats would chase her so she could run screaming and screeching back up to her favorite high spot, a shelf in the kitchen.  Despite the fearsome sounds she was never harmed so this was really her game, her bid for extra attention.  She always seemed to be a loner, never bonding with other cats.  A psychic told me she had a companion in spirit always with her, a long haired snowy white male.  So actually she was never really alone and didn’t feel the need for more corporeal friendship.  She stayed with us many happy years and was a delight to all who knew her.    But then she became very thin.  No explanation could be found and she quietly faded away.  “A Toast To Callie” is her poem.

    In my home cats and dogs got along well together.  They accepted each other’s ways.  An atmosphere of love encouraged this.  Once in a while a certain slyness and dark humor inherent in cats would be expressed.  However the dogs being tolerant and easy going never held a grudge. My husband, Buddy, has always had a natural affinity for creatures. Most anything winged, clawed, or hoofed, scaled, fur clad, or otherwise, whether wild or tame would respond to him.

    On his mother’s street there lived a large orange marmalade colored tomcat who roamed freely.  He had a big head and intense yellow green eyes.  He was pretty well beaten up, bearing scars of previous scuffles.  Actually I considered him somewhat ferocious looking and was not drawn to him.  Later I learned once more that the outer covering does not always represent the true essence within.  Of course Buddy and this cat found each other.  The sound of Buddy’s car would bring Futie running up the street to meet him.  When the discovery was made that Futie’s owner had died and the cat was left to fend for himself, naturally Buddy brought him home to me.  I have always regretted that my fear caused me to insist he be declawed.  Complications from the procedure caused him much pain but he forgave me.  I learned that declawing is never necessary and always cruel.

    Futie was wise and gentle, a wonderful being, an old soul who had been around through many lives.  As I think about him I relive many memories.  I can see him sitting in a driveway one spring night. A full golden moon hung low in the sky and the air was drenched with lilac scent.  Next to him sat a glorious long furred female calico, most likely the mother of Callie.  I remember many times being at my round wooden kitchen table, editing my writing.  Futie would be lying by my elbow regarding his world with his amazing chartreuse eyes.  Later on when he becme weak and sick, he would be fed in a separate room so others would not take his food.  After he finished he would signal with a series of long low gonging meows, almost bell like in timbre,. This sound was uniquely his.  I can still hear it and probably always will.  “One Cat’s Heaven” and “Old Futie” are his poems.

On to chapter three...