My life as a cowboy cat

It all began back in 1994.  There I was, lopin’ along behind a likely-looking couple there on the boulevard, not pausing to notice block after block of nondescript buildings or pay much attention to the endless stream of pollution-spewing cars, trucks, SUVs and such.  I mean, what self-respecting cowboy cat would do such a thing when only three things – namely, food, water and a loving, forever home really matter?  Anyway, it was gettin’ on for dark, and I needed a place to bunk for the night, off the main street, and these folks looked like they might oblige.

Being as I was about half-grown at the time, and full of kitten energy, it was no big deal for me to run flat-out for a distance; but just as it started gettin’ a little cold, up pulls this car and out steps a kindred soul.  I would have recognized him anywhere – he was a real podner, if you take my meanin’.  After exchanging some pleasantries and a quick Q & A with the couple I was following, he bent down, scooped me up, and deposited me in the lap of his woman, who was in the passenger seat of their cute little red Honda.  In a flash, we were off for parts unknown.  But I wasn’t worried.  After all, I’m a Cowboy Cat and Cowboy Cats have things under control.

Admittedly, it wasn’t what I was used to.  My preferred method of travel is, of course, via the horse.  But the journey we made in the couple’s little car wasn’t at all unpleasant; I used the opportunity to check out the interior and take in some scenery, lying leonine in the back windshield while being admired by those lucky enough to observe my progress.  In short order, we arrived at a long drive, tall wooden gates, and a massive tree I was already thinking of climbing.  “My New Forever Home” had a nice ring to it.  I smiled and waved my long, long twelve-striped tail as the woman set me down inside the gates, locking them behind us.

Now I won’t say that bein’ a Cowboy Cat doesn’t involve a measure of loneliness; and I have a nature most folks would describe as extremely friendly and easy-going, so the other cats I introduced myself to that evening were not a problem but rather a whole world of new podners for me.  There were little cathouses dotted over the landscape – no, not THAT kind, the REAL kind – outfitted with grub, fresh water, and even bedrolls.  The night passed peacefully, and in the morning, there was my rescuer, who stopped to greet me en route to his car and whatever it was he did for a livin’.  In a short while, his woman came out and smiled, glad to see me safe and sound.  She scooped me up and brought me in, installing me in my own suite, complete with everything a self-respecting cowpoke like myself would want or need.  It was a mite lonely after meetin’ all those new faces, but I was comfortable and had nothin’ to complain about – the grub was plentiful and good, the water fresh and cool, and the bedroll was soft.

The next few days passed and I went for another ride in the folks’ little red car to see a man who looked me over and gave me some doctorin’ and declared me fit as a fiddle.  After an overnight stay at his place, I came home to meet some MORE feline podners who, like me, lived inside!  Together, we roamed the range of the folks’ brown carpet, makin’ sure they were safe, keepin’ all the doggies at bay, and just generally bein’ cathouse-happy.  It was a good life, and I couldn’t complain.  But still better was to come.

Round about ten years after I came to join ‘em, these folks decided to make a move to a real ranch spread up in the Mojave, and of course, all of us went with ‘em!  Some of the podners rode the range in the stables compound and made themselves comfortable in the cathouse up there; those of us in the main house had our own catio from where we could keep tabs on things like jacker-bunnies, quail, horny toads, red racer snakes, and such.  Sometimes we’d be out there all night long, lookin’ at the moon and listenin’ to the roosters goin’ off and the coyotes singin’ and the bugs buggin’.  I tell you, it was some life for us, especially for a Cowboy Cat like myself.  But stuff happens in life, and long story short, we got exiled.

Some of us had to emigrate, sure as shootin’, to a place where it was safer.  The rest of us ended up down here in the city again.  Different city, same buildings and cars.  It hasn’t been easy, but I know my job, and I do it with a smile.  After all, I’m not called Sheriff Samuda for nothin’.  Anything needs investigatin’ or protectin’ around here, I’m the cat to do it.  The woman, who’s my only servant now, tells everyone I ride tall in the saddle, friend to all, rulin’ with a velvet paw.  I’d say that ain’t too far from bein’ how I’d describe myself, either.  The years have gone by, and once in awhile I might take a side-swipe at one of these young whippersnappers when they get too familiar, but mostly, I’m still just The Temple City Tabbyman, Sheriff Samuda, Cowboy Cat.  And that’s my tale.  Hope you enjoyed it.

If you liked Samuda's story, you may like to look at what he would do if he could rule the world for just one day. Click here:

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