Overcoming a bit of fuzzy childhood trauma

I love all God’s creatures, but I’ve never been a feline fancier.

I have two different cats that greet me at my mailbox. They trade off hanging out in my rose bush and I can cat talk with either with yowls but neither will approach. That’s kind of the way cats are, things are on their terms.

I experienced a bit of childhood trauma because of a barn cat and her fuzzy little kittens. It all happened early one morning when I had nothing better to do than torment my little sister. I tossed the dish she was feeding those cats in up into the sheetrock ceiling of the old dairy barn in which my dad was running hogs.

I tired of the teasing and torment and told her I would get the cat dish down. I scampered up feed sacks into the opening in the ceiling and located the dish and tossed it down. Since I was there I decided it would be great fun to stomp on the ceiling above the mean old sow in the next room. My eight years of knowledge hadn’t learned that sheet rock had a limited weight limit and jumping on it was literally my downfall.

When I began dating my late wife she had cats, three or four of them and one of them a Siamese with a surly attitude. Aptly named after female outlaw Belle Starr, this cat didn’t much like me moving into her domain. If I made a move to put my arm around my sweetie I was quickly clawed.

She picked ambush spots and would attack as I passed by. After every date I went home with bloody arms and hands.

As romance blossomed and marriage ensued Belle Starr and I eventually reached somewhat of a truce. If I regularly cleaned her litter box she would allow me to pet her on occasion.

One of her other cats, a rangy old calico tomcat was a lot more laid back. He spent most of his time outside but if inside he wanted to be in a lap. When we bought a new house and brought him there to live with my Blue Heeler, he stuck around awhile then mysteriously disappeared. Nearly a year after the Blue Heeler was gone, Scat Cat was back.

We moved Belle Starr several times and she acted strangely after every move. One place with adjacent open fields she showed us she could hunt mice. She just had no reason for killing them with a full food bowl. It was much more fun watching me retrieve the mouse from behind the refrigerator.

After our move to Colorado, Belle lived for a month in a motel and didn’t like it a bit. When we finally got a place to call home she moved into the spare bedroom and never came out. Until one day she appeared at the door yowling at me to be let out — so I did.

I’m pretty sure she became a snack for a predator, likely a mountain lion because I never found a trace of her. My wife never forgave me but we never had another cat after Belle Starr.

Karl Terry writes for Clovis Media Inc. Contact him at:

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