The other cats #3: The feral
(Cats I don't really count as mine. See also #1 and #2.)
The kids grew up, started uni, moved out. Bill and I sold up and bought a country property.
Our cats, Ishtar and Sam, adored the place: fourteen acres, half of it uncleared bush. They were neutered, but we said Sam got his balls back. He started doing macho things like leaving uncovered scat on rocks: an assertive territorial message.
A big black cat started hanging around. Young, male, wary — one of the ferals our neighbours had mentioned. We wondered about taming it, but were going on holiday.
When we returned, our house-sitters told us they’d reached the point where ‘Blackie’ (their name for him) would let the man hold him. ‘He's a nice boy,’ they said.
We tried wooing Blackie ourselves. One time he came close enough and stayed long enough for me to sketch him. I'd been doing a landscape, just mucking about. I made haste to draw him where there was space, in the blank sky.
Sam started picking on Ishtar, as if to drive her away. Incomprehensible! They’d always been close.
I began hearing Blackie make strange calls. Sam would go out, walking stiffly, self-consciously, bringing Blackie food. It became apparent they were both bullying Ishtar. I'd rescue her, but couldn’t always be there. She was in a constant state of terror, losing weight, looking sick. Sam clearly wasn’t happy either, made to do Blackie’s dirty work, though he obeyed meekly. Not so macho after all.
No way would I have my sweet, gentle Ishtar victimised. We lured Blackie into a crate, slammed it shut, phoned the vet. I explained: feral cat terrorising ours. Would he put it down? (I'd pay.) He would.
Imprisoned, Blackie went crazy. Bill reached between the slats to soothe — and pulled his fingers out fast as Blackie lunged, shrieking in rage.
‘I phoned about getting this cat put down,’ I told the girl on reception.
‘Ohhh! Would you like to sit with him and say goodbye?’
‘You’ve misunderstood the situation. Be careful opening that cage.’ I walked out.
Sam and Ishtar, hugely relieved, became themselves again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
A long time later I found the sketch. His black shape floated in the sky.
‘I drew him as a ghost!’ I thought.
Shared with Poets and Storytellers United via Writers' Pantry #72.