Giving “Cat Fight” a Whole New Meaning

Giving “Cat Fight” a Whole New Meaning

The biggest fight my husband and I ever got into was over a cat. We were taking a leisurely stroll after supper when the sound of pitiful mewing met my ears. Although my right forearm bears 17-year-old bite marks from the time, as a child, I tried to domesticate a wild feline and failed, I was not deterred.

Kneeling on the side of the road, I called out to the cat in all the ridiculous ways an animal lover can. Ten seconds hadn’t passed when a little fluff-ball came bouncing out of the tall grass into my arms. It was a long-haired tiger that looked up at me with trusting green eyes illuminated by the streetlight’s glow. It hadn’t even licked my hand with its pink sandpaper tongue when I knew my heart was smitten.

My husband’s, on the other hand, was not.

As I beseeched him with my biggest eyes and asked, “Can we keep it?” he replied with the answer I already knew was to come:

“Honey, you know we can’t have a cat in our apartment. Plus, it probably belongs to someone anyway.”

I decided I would at least find out if the kitten belonged to the neighbor before I took any drastic actions like stuffed it under my shirt and hightailed it for the woods.

As I tiptoed across the neighbor’s lawn with a mysterious bundle pressed against my chest, the little old lady who lived inside was probably so shocked to be receiving visitors at such a late hour, she didn’t dare answer the door.

I didn’t know what to do after that. I knew I couldn’t take the kitten home with me, but neither did I want to leave it as an appetizer for wild animals.

Then my husband said, “Just leave it. It probably belongs to that neighbor over there, and it just got separated from its mom.”

In reply, I more or less said how could he even think to suggest such a callous thing, but I still set the kitten down in the grasses from which it had leapt into my arms. Giving the fur-ball one more weepy look, I took a few steps away from it, and it started hopping and mewing after me.

My heart couldn’t stand such suffering! Turning around, I started to run back toward the cat when my husband put his hand around my upper arm and stopped me. Jerking that arm out of his grasp, I looked up at him with venom in my eyes and spat, “Don’t you ever manhandle me again!”

My poor husband was as befuddled as the cat I was in the midst of abandoning. He wasn’t manhandling me; he was just trying to keep me from complicating a situation that seemed so incredibly simple to a pragmatist like him.

One week later, as we were driving back over to my in-law’s, my husband said, “Look there, Honey. You see that cat? I told you he lived there.”

I looked out the window and couldn’t believe my eyes. Right there was my little tiger, merrily hopping around with his littermates in the neighbor’s yard. And here I would’ve catnapped him without a second thought.

Two years have passed since that kitten debacle, but I still haven’t lost my penchant for rescuing critters that might already have homes. Today, during my walk, I came across four puppies with fox-like markings and the prettiest golden eyes. They kept yipping as I approached them, so I crouched low and called them toward me. They came scampering down the embankment and licked my palm.

I didn’t want them to get hit on the road, so I whistled and clapped for them to follow me back down toward our property. All but one trotted behind me. I tried and tried to get him to follow, too, but he kept growling whenever I drew near.

The puppies were too tired to make it the whole way down our lane, so I tucked them in the shade and went back to talk to my husband.

I said, “I did a bad thing.” 

“What?”

“I found four more strays.”

Sighing, he said, “Honey, we can never get a dog of your own if you keep taking care of everyone else’s.”

“I know that,” I said. “I don’t even want to keep these. I just don’t want them to starve.”

Randy nodded, and soon afterward we headed out the lane in our separate Jeeps.

I drove in front because I didn’t want him to accidentally run over the puppies. Sure enough, they were still there–panting and wagging their plumed tails. I got out and called them to me. They were scared of the vehicle at first, but then they came up and licked my ankles.

Randy got out and grinned.

Seeing this, I said, “Aren’t they cute?”

He nodded. “I can bring food out for them tomorrow if we can just leave them here tonight.”

I agreed to this, then searched both of our Jeeps for water. We had drank all of ours, but we did have some cookies that I crumbled up and set before the pups.

Petting their heads, I clambered back in the Jeep and pulled out of the lane. I knew Randy would have to close the gate, so I thought I might have just enough time to grab the other puppy and take him down to his siblings.

When Randy pulled out of our lane, he saw his wife’s Jeep haphazardly parked on an incline (I used my emergency brake, people) while I climbed up the embankment in a purple sundress, trying to get a growling puppy to come closer.

My husband shifted into Park and stuck his head out the window. “Your car’s going to get hit right there!”

I looked back at my Jeep. He was right; plus, the puppy and I weren’t exactly bonding.

Comforting myself with the fact that Randy would be back with food tomorrow, I slid down the embankment, got in the Jeep and drove out the road with my husband following.

Before we pulled onto the highway, my husband honked his horn. I put on the brake and waited for him to jog around to my driver’s side.

“Did you forget your cell phone out at the land?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, I left it at the apartment.”

He nodded, then said, “The puppies were already going up the lane to meet with that other one, and I dropped some cookies out the window for it, too.”

I grinned at my mountain man with a heart of hidden gold, and the whole drive back I couldn’t stop myself from thinking: What in the world are we going to name them?