general_stirling_priceAs I fold laundry, his tail flicks while leaning in hard, encircling and caressing my ankles. He curls up close, watching me sleep until I wake, tears blanketing my eyes. "Poor kitty, my poor sweet old guy," I whisper.

One of poor old kitty's lives began years before when some heartless person tossed him out into our forest. My neighbours and I spotted this orangey guy often, but now fear ruled, and no amount of enticing could corral him.

I'd seen dozens of the frightened creatures looking bewildered at the edge of the road; defenceless dump-offs. If approached, they rushed into the woods to hide, innocent victims of someone who had no use for cats.

Winter came blustery and white, and the cat looked to be eternally frozen. He held his ground, refusing tossed kibbles until the coast was clear. Gimping along on cracked and sore paws, he made his way through thick underbrush where the ground lay bare.

Sometimes gigantic fir boughs loosed their great snow loads in the wind, plunging with a loud thud atop the cat's hiding places, nearly burying him alive.

After months of wandering and rustling up pitiful grub, the cat broke out upon our mountain valley. He had survived winter on his own, scrawny but intact and hopefully less despondent about life. Dump-offs usually pose an edgy presence at places they encounter, and this fellow was no exception, still guarded while moving from one barn to another.

Retreating from my lodge to feed the donkey herd, I noticed the cat sat and watched. I bent low for him to eat from my hand, but despite his hunger, he was terrified to venture close.

I left an old woollen army blanket and a daily bowl of chow atop the tallest bale in the hay-room. He seemed almost content there if his matted coat hadn't finally overwhelmed his tongue.

As I hummed softly while at my chores, he peeked over the bales with his hackles up. I carefully reached up to touch his head, but he panicked and fled.

Then one chilly autumn afternoon, with all the courage he could muster, he thrust out his claws and climbed down into my lap. Pent-up emotions gave way, releasing his burden and my tears. "It's okay, fella. I won't rush you. Take your time, dear old thing," I said, as my gnarly fingers nuzzled the cat's neck. He was home.

Having endured rugged exploits on our mountain, I called him General Sterling Price after a Civil War general of some renown. He learned his name quickly while my dog followed him around. The dog watched the General roll in delicious green grass, thoroughly fascinated by his gamy and bizarre self.

I wondered how old the General was. Surely he was in his teens. He looked grizzled after losing an eye, various teeth and claws, and another of his nine lives. Winter found him curled up before our fireplace and occasionally strolling into the barn where the mice had his number.

He was so thin and tired that I often carried him to his bowl of milk and special supper. Feeding him put a dent in my monthly check. How could I complain for I, too, had been in the fight?

His will to survive taught me courage every day -- not to whine over my own stuff but to roll with the punches.

So we joyfully pursued our dotage together while the General longingly eyed the cedar chest at the foot of our bed. He worked his way up to it, thrumming sweet love songs in my ear every night.

Then one night -- silence. Ahead of our hard freeze I wept cold tears while making his resting place beneath giant fir trees; so glad he had chosen me to soothe his tattered body and loving soul.

After telling a neighbour how heartbroken I felt at losing my sweet General, her response ripped through me like cold steel. "Oh, Kath," she said, "you shouldn't feel bad. He was just an old stray cat."

But my kitty wasn't just any old cat. He had more grit and pure love than a lot of people, and I desperately wanted to show this uncaring person the door.

Left with a big hole in my heart, I let myself cry whenever I felt like it, and tears provided a wonderful healing release. I had come close to letting depression overtake me, and it wasn't fair to my precious dog who was grieving over my grief.

How long did I plan on feeling this way? I pondered. I had seen others consumed with bitterness and obsessively, endlessly suffering and plaguing everyone around them. But this would not be my style.

I made the decision to work through my days with favorite foods, working with the dog, currying the donkeys, and spending time reciting my works at the nursing home.

I pictured the General over the Rainbow Bridge chasing butterflies with new and old friends while I sat at my computer, telling his harrowing story to the world.

And someday soon, his dauntless spirit just might send me headlong to a rescue shelter where I'll do it all over again. For aren't kitties a beating heart and an angel's soul covered in fur?


BIO:

Kathe lives on a Montana mountain with her mammoth donkeys, a Keeshond, and a few kitties. She is a prolific writer on Alzheimer's, and her stories are found on many ezines. Kathe is a contributing author to the CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL series, numerous anthologies, RX for Writers, and medical journals.


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  • Reduces fighting, injury and noise
  • Reduces spraying and smelling
  • Much less likely to wander and get lost
  • Safer from diseases like feline AIDS, mammary tumours and feline leukaemia
  • Reduces the number of unwanted kittens

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