The tiny tortoiseshell kitten made her way cautiously through the night, staying close to the houses and shrubs, hoping not to be seen. Even though she had no idea where she was going, she felt the need to keep on moving, if only to keep warm. A sudden blast of wind almost blew her over, the cold penetrating her thin kitten coat making her cry out in misery.

Her plight was all the more difficult because one of her eyes had closed tight, covered by mucous from an eye infection. Able to see out of only one good eye, every movement around her, even if only of a leaf or a scrap of paper, was terrifying. The rustling that something large made as it moved through the bushes just behind her, caused her to curl up and cringe, hoping that whatever it was would not see or hurt her. When she thought it was safe, she moved on again, even more cautiously than before, certain that danger lurked everywhere.

She came to a street corner. Which way should she go? As she started to cross the road, she was caught in the beam of headlights from a car that appeared suddenly from around the corner. For a moment she froze in her tracks, the car gaining on her; but the driver had seen a movement in front of him and slammed on his brakes. The sound roused the kitten out of her stupor and sent her scurrying across the road out of harm’s way.

Within the safety of a large bush she huddled, too scared to move. Then she saw two rats working their way along the path she had chosen. It was obvious they were not good friends. They spat angrily at each other. One quickly headed off in another direction. The other continued towards where she lay. The kitten remained motionless, afraid to breath.

Further up the street another cat, named Scooter, had just finished a meal that he had eaten in a heated outdoor feeding area provided by a human for stray cats and other animals that lived in the vicinity. There were other cats that lived there both inside the house and outside. All were well taken care of and even he, an outdoor cat, was the recipient of tasty treats given him by the human.

Scooter felt a little exercise was in order and, having been warmed by the food, was ready for a walk.
Meanwhile, the kitten backed away as the rat approached. The leaves rustled just enough to attract the rat’s attention.

“What have we here?” the rat asked, seeing the kitten huddled under the bush. He bared his teeth and let out a low hiss. “A little late for someone your age to be out, don’t you think?” He added in a menacing voice.

The kitten was too frightened to reply. The rat moved towards her but, before he could take another step, a deep rumbling growl came from behind him. Quickly, the rat turned and came face-to-face with a large dog. The rat barred his teeth and returned the dog’s menacing look with one of his own.

“Get out of my yard!” the dog growled.

“Make me!” The rat challenged, his bare teeth showing.

Not wishing to be caught in the middle of the fight, the kitten seized the opportunity to dart away from under the bush running as fast as her tiny legs would carry her. The dog saw the motion and lost interest in the rat. His new target was the small ball of fur running for all it was worth. He took off after the kitten, barking and growling as he went. A large fence loomed ahead. It was much too high for the tiny kitten to climb. Too tired to run any further, she lay down at the foot of the fence at the mercy of the approaching dog.

“Well, what have we here?” the dog said, showing his teeth and growling low. “Lost, are you?”

“Yes,” the kitten replied. “Please don’t hurt me. I mean you no harm.”

Just as the dog was about to leap on the kitten, a set of claws caught him across the nose. He screamed in pain and jumped back, blood dripping from the scratches.

“You’re a brave dog taking on that tiny kitten.” said Scooter, who had heard the commotion and arrived in time to intervene.

The dog, regaining his composure on seeing that his new adversary was just a cat, growled. “What makes you think you are big enough to keep me from taking you both on?”

“Let’s just say, I have more to lose then you do” Scooter replied, his attitude indicating he was not intimidated by the bully. “That gives me a lot of incentive to make sure you don’t win.”

The dog had never faced a really determined, angry cat before, and he lunged at Scooter. With all his natural agility, Scooter leapt to one side while delivering another, painful clawing to the dog’s muzzle, barely missing its eye. The dog backed off.

“There’s more where that came from,” Scooter said confidently, “If I were you, I’d give up while I was ahead. Be a good doggy and go home!”

The dog growled and snarled then stopped, turned tail and ran. Scooter turned to the tiny kitten. “Hello,” he said kindly. “My name is Scooter. Are you lost?”

When the kitten didn’t reply, Scooter said. “It’s all right. You are safe with me. Are you hungry?”

That got the kitten’s attention. Slowly, she came towards him and rubbed herself against his front legs. ”Thank you, Mr. Scooter, you saved my life.”

Scooter licked her on the top of her head and said, “Follow me, we are not far from my home.” Scooter turned to go, but the kitten was too exhausted to follow. Gently, he took hold of her as her mother would have done and carried her back to the house, setting her down gently before the bowl of food. Once she had eaten her fill, he led her to the heated area. There, he curled up on the soft blanket. “Come on,” he said, “it’s time you got some sleep.”

It was still dark when the human began her morning cat-feeding duties. She had expected to see Scooter curled up in the heated shelter, on his own, but to her surprise, there, snuggling next to him, was a tiny kitten.

“What have we here!” the human exclaimed. “Who’s your friend, Scooter? What a sweet kitten!” The human went back into the house, returning with a small cat carrier. The kitten had been too frightened to move. When the human reached for her, the kitten wanted to run away; but Scooter blocked the way saying “Go with the human, kitten, you are safe now.”

The human picked up the kitten and took her inside. There the kitten had her eyes cleaned and medicated and for the first time could see out of both of them. Then she was placed in a large crate with a soft bed, lots of food, toys and a litter box.

“Don’t be afraid, kitten,” the human said, “You will only have to stay in there a day or two until you get to know the other kitties and they get to know you. Then, the house is yours to roam about in. This is your home now, too.”

The human went back to where Scooter was sitting. “I know I will never find out how you came upon this kitten, but it was a very kind and courageous thing you did, bringing her here to safety. Please come inside and live with me. I would be privileged to have you as my friend.”

Though this story has been embellished, it is nonetheless true. It will forever be a mystery where the small kitten came from, but Fate saw fit to have her cross paths with a kindred spirit, who, in saving her, changed both their lives for the better.

© Copyright 2011 Karen Lynch
Floyd the Dog has donated €48.09 (equivalent to £42.41 or $68.33) On behalf of Karen Lynch to Florida Cause for Paws, Tampa, Florida, U.S.A.
First published by www.floydthedog.com

The stray cat business had been slow this particular spring, with only the regulars making their appearances at my outside feeder I call The Hovel. One day, a short-haired, grey, tabby, sporting only three quarters of its tail appeared. After observing the cat for a day or two, I noticed that it was definitely a “she” and that she was nursing kittens.

The usual procedure with stray mother cats is that when the kittens are old enough to eat real food, the mother cat will lead them to The Hovel. Since this mother cat came on her own, I knew her kittens were too young to travel.

It was spring, so I named my new dinner guest, Lily, after the quintessential spring flower. I knew it was useless to search for her kittens, as I was sure she had hidden them well, so that when she left to eat, they would be safe. But, I ventured a guess that they were not very far away.

It wasn’t long after Lily arrived, that my neighbor, Joe, who lives across the street, informed me there were kittens in the yard backing up to his. One, he said, solemnly, was particularly mean as it had hissed at him.

I followed him back to his house and into his backyard. It was separated from his neighbor’s yard by a solid six foot fence. I peeked through the crack, and saw three, very small kittens playing in the tall grass.

Now I know where your kittens are, Lily, I thought, but, how to get them? The backyard they were in belonged to a vacant house, surrounded by this six foot fence and whose gate was locked. This would take team work. So, I enlisted the aid of two neighbors, who conveniently owned stepladders.

I went back home to get my large cat carrier. On my way out the door, I encountered Lily sitting on my front walk. She looked at me as if to say, “I know what you’re doing.”

“It’s time to bring the kittens inside, Lily,” I said to her, because knowing cats as I do, I knew she would understand what I was saying, “where you and they will be safe. Come on, let’s go get them.”

Lily took off and I gathered my cat rescue team and entered Joe’s back yard.

Using the ladders provided by my neighbors, I climbed over the fence and went about looking for the kittens.

“Be careful!” Joe warned. “One of them is mean.”

I didn’t have to look far. There in the tall grass were the three kittens. None of them were bigger then the palm of my hand. Two of them were dark brown, long-haired tabbies with white markings. They were huddled close together. It was clear they were scared to death.

In front of the two stood the third kitten, this one was also long-haired, but it had beautiful blue-point coloration and startling Mediterranean blue eyes and it was clearly in charge.

How big do you think a kitten the size of your palm, with a tail the length of the first digit of your little finger, can blow itself up to be…not too large, you say? Really! In spite of my huge frame looming over him, I sensed that he pictured himself the size of a mature lion facing off a gladiator in the coliseum. The only way to the two kittens cowering behind him was through him. And I was daft if I thought that was going to happen.

He hissed his best hiss, growled his best growl and leaped forward in defiance and distain.

What, I ask you, does one do in the face of such out and out heroics?

First, I smiled and marveled that something so small, so young and innocent was willing to give it his all to save his siblings. I had never known a greater feat of bravery. Then, I scooped the feline Sir Lancelot up and held him close and said, “My brave one, I assure you that you and your family are safe.”

I turned and saw Lily standing a short distance away. I scooped the other two kittens up with my other hand, kissed them all gently on the head and placed them in the carrier.

“Time to take your family home, Mama Lily,” I said, and she followed the kittens into the carrier.

When I got home, I showed the Lily family to my husband, Gray, and told him how brave the blue-point kitten had been.

“I’d say he’s Special Forces material,” he said, having been a US Army Special Forces soldier himself, he new one when he saw one. “I think we should name him Tuff Tuff, for double tough, because that’s what he was.”

Over the years, Tuff Tuff made sure he did not miss any meals. Rather than being double tough, he grew to be 26, not fat, just big, pounds of double sweet cat.

But don’t let that sweet demeanor fool you. The other day, a security system’s salesman came to my door. He argued, and I do me argued, the benefits of installing his security system in my home. Despite my telling him repeatedly my house was already well guarded, he continued his sales pitch.

Suddenly, he stopped mid-sentence and said, “I guess you don’t need a security system. That cat’s bigger than most peoples’ dogs.”

I looked down and there sat Tuff, Tuff, in his full Sir Lancelot mode.

“I laughed and replied, “He’s just the backup.”

The salesman turned and walked away.

No one knows when they will be called upon to act with courage. It is instinctive in all creatures to defend what they love without regard for their own safety or wellbeing.

Tuff Tuff, at 14-years-old, is still Special Forces material, for sure!

Karen A. Lynch
Copyright 2010, all rights reserved.

My destination was Houyhnhnm Farm. Perhaps you will remember Houyhnhnm as the name of a breed of intelligent horses that author Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver encountered in the last part of the satiric story Gulliver’s Travels. It was a tongue-twister of a name until I learned that it was pronounced whin-em, which is what the owners of the farm to which I was heading, hoped that the horses they raised would do, both on the racetrack and in the show ring.

Lexington is the center of the world’s Thoroughbred and Standardbred horse breeding industry. It was my dream to rise to the top of the Thoroughbred industry. A lofty ambition given I was not a blue-blooded Kentuckian, whose families have been steeped in the tradition of Thoroughbred breeding for centuries. Although I had the qualifications and experience to succeed, I was an outsider, a transplant from northern Ohio, and female, another oddity in the business.

I now had a foothold in my dream thanks to an Oklahoma oilman, who had entrusted his Thoroughbred breeding operation to my care. I had chosen Houyhnhnm as the place to keep his horses until I could secure a farm of my own.

Houyhnhnm had a mix of Thoroughbred horses, those that race on the flat or over fences, and Standardbreds, who race while pulling a two-wheeled cart called a sulky. For the most part, Thoroughbreds are known for their beauty, while Standardbreds, since the time of their inception and because of their ancestry, have been thought of as plain looking. Standardbreds are bred to have two special gaits, a very fast trot (Trotters) and a gait that involves the horse moving both legs on the same side at the same time, referred to a pacing, Pacers have a very awkward way of moving, giving the impression of listing from side to side as they travel across the ground.

My attention was drawn to a particular colt. He stood out from the others because he was always alone. It was apparent right from the start that though they meant him no harm, the rest of the herd paid little, if any, attention to him. He was obviously an orphan.

He was sweet, but very plain looking and, because he was bred to pace, he moved anything but gracefully. Every day I would check up on him when I came to visit my client’s horses. Most of the foals were still at an age that they clung to their mother’s side. The orphaned colt took his meals with the other foals in the creep feeder, a special enclosure build to allow the foals in to eat, while keeping the mares out. They all had enough to eat, but the other foals still had the additional luxury of feeding from their mother and the comfort of her care.

It was obvious that the orphaned foal was lonely and sad. He stayed close enough to be protected by the herd, but far enough away so as not to incur the wrath of the mares that were not open to the idea of taking on a second foal.

A month passed, and still the orphaned colt made little progress at becoming one of the herd. Then came the summer heat, and with it the scourge of flies. While the other foals stood alongside their mothers blissfully fly-free thanks to her tail, the orphaned colt had to do his best with only the whiskbroom of his own tail.

Eventually, the other foals formed friendships with each other and played the usual horsy games of tag and race you to the fence. When tired, or hungry, they had their mothers to run to for a meal, a sweet lick on the back, or a tooth scratching on the rump.

The orphan stood alone, wearing the saddest of wistful expressions. Was he, perhaps, dreaming of being fully accepted by the others as one of the herd?

There was one Thoroughbred mare my client owned that I especially liked. Her name was Highland Hills. She was very well bred, being a half-sister to the great Sword Dancer. She was also the sweetest, kindest of mares and really beautiful, her coat a rich, chestnut color. By her side was her equally handsome, chestnut foal, a colt by the very good racehorse, Little Current.

This colt had taken to playing games with the others. One day, as I watched, the orphaned colt, caught up in the moment, tried to join in a racing game. Because he paced instead of galloped, he was quickly left behind. I saw Highland’s colt look over his shoulder, and a very curious thing happened. Instead of running on, he galloped back to the orphaned colt, turned and slowed his gallop to match the orphaned colt’s pace. It was a gesture of friendship not lost on me, or the orphaned colt.

After that, the two buddies romped around the field together. You could see the difference in the behavior of the orphaned colt, now happy to have a friend, though always when the time came, Highland’s colt would return to his mother’s side and the orphaned colt would once more be on his own.

One day, the flies were particularly bad. I watched the two colts romp around the field together. Then, as usual, Highland’s colt joined his mother for the comfort provided by her tail. Soon, I saw that the flies had become too much for the orphaned colt. Risking all, he cautiously moved up until he was positioned, face to the rear, on Highland Hill’s unoccupied side.

I saw her look around at the intruder and wondered what her reaction to him would be. Then, I saw her long, think tail, which had, up to then, been swishing only to the side that her colt was standing, begin to swish in both directions, and she lowered her head to the ground and began to eat.

Now the orphaned colt had two friends. Each day the two colts would play together. Then, when Highland’s colt went back to his mother, the orphaned foal would also happily stand alongside her, glad of her protection from the flies.

One day, again as I watched, he took his gamble one step farther. When Highland’s colt had finished feeding from her, the orphaned colt gave it a try. I guess I should not have been surprised that Highland let him. Now the two friends were brothers.

I was not alone in finding a place where dreams could come true.

©Karen Lynch. All rights reserved.
Photograph by Karen Lynch

Floyd the Dog has donated 46.18 Euros (US$56.67 UK£38.33) on behalf of Karen Lynch to “Cause for Paws”, Florida, U.S.A.

First published by www.floydthedog.com

Halloween was also a favorite of Sara’s. Every year, she gave careful consideration to the costume she would wear. Luckily, her Aunt Elie, who lived with her family, was a skilled seamstress and could make most any costume Sara desired. This year, Sara would be a fairy princess, complete with jeweled crown, gossamer wings and a magic wand.

Aunt Ellie’s husband, Uncle Joe, also lived with her family in their big house that faced the town square. Uncle Joe loved to tell stories. Sara was sure he made them up as he went along, because he never could tell a story the same way twice.

Just the other day, in honor of Halloween, Uncle Joe told her the story of a cat name Shade.

How could a Halloween cat be anything but black? Shade was black as the night, with beautiful mahogany brown eyes. His meow was hushed and he walked on silent, velvet paws that left no prints, for Shade was a ghost.

It was said that Shade lived in the abandoned, and some said, haunted house, that was across the square from Sara’s home. That he roamed the night in search of the spirit of the child he once belonged to and was lost. Some nights, people swore they could hear his lonesome wailing, a melancholy sound that drifted across the night air.

Shade was a story without ending, because, Uncle Joe said, a ghost story is without end.

Sara laughed. A ghost story is a tale without end…only Uncle Joe could come up with an idea like that.

Halloween night arrived. Sara’s Dad drove her to the school gym, where a costume party was already in progress. Her gossamer wings had proved a problem where her seat belt was concerned. But, she made it.

The gym had been decorated in sections, all spooky. There was a cave that bats flew out of as you walked passed, a cemetery, where ghosts and skeletons rose up from behind the tombstones, and a haunted house.

Sara stood before the haunted house. It gave her an eerie feeling.

“You think that house you live across from is really haunted?” A voice from behind her asked.

“Don’t know,” she replied to the boy, dressed as a vampire, that she recognized as a classmate. “I’ve never been in it.”

“I have,” he said. “and its spooky as heck. Got out of there in a hurry, I did!”

“Did you see a ghost?” Sara asked. “Did you see the cat?”

“Nah, I didn’t see anything. It was just creepy, that’s all.”

It was still early when the party ended, so some of Sara’s friends suggested they go trick or treating house to house.

Sara called home and got permission to join them, but was told to stay with the group no matter what and to be home by eight o’clock.

In the Halloween spirit, most homeowners had turned on their porch lights and welcomed the ghouls, ghosts, witches, clowns and one very pretty fairy princess as they went about, door to door, filling their plastic pumpkin baskets and bags with treats.

When the tower clock on city hall chimed eight o’clock, the group was almost to Sara’s house.

“I have to go,” she said, as she bid them farewell and started toward home.

Before she realized it, she was in front of the old, abandoned house. She had never really seen it at night, and as she looked at its dark foreboding facade a chill rain down her spine.

She heard a rustling sound, and thought she saw something dart through the tangled underbrush.

Could it be the cat? Sara thought. The thought drew her in, and before she knew what she was doing, she had opened the creaky, wrought iron gate and let herself into the front yard.

Go back Sara, her inner voice warned…go back.

But, Sara coould not go back, something drew her on, and now, she was at the front door.

She turned the knob and the door began to open. What am I doing, she thought, and started to retreat.

“Meow!”

The sound startled her, but drew her back to the door. With shaking hand, she again grasped the knob. The door opened at her touch.

“Meow!”

“Here kitty…where are you, kitty?” She heard herself say, as she stepped inside what was a large foyer. From the light cast by a streetlamp out front, she could see that the furnishings were very old, and very dusty.

“Meow!”

The sound seemed to be coming from the top of the winding staircase that began in the foyer and rose to the second floor. She placed her treat-filled, pumpkin basket on the floor, switched her magic wand into her left hand, grasped the banister along the wall and started up the stairs.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” she called, as she made her way up the steps and to the second floor.

Another “Meow!” came from the dark hall.

“Please, come here, kitty,” Sara begged, afraid to go any farther. “Here kitty, kitty.”

Sara could see that one of the doors was opened, light from the streetlamp illuminating the open doorway.

Suddenly, the front door slammed shut.

Sara screamed in fright, and for no apparent reason, ran to the light and the open door.

Once inside, she realized it was a child’s room. A canopy bed sat against one wall, stuffed animals set up against the pillows. Bookcases set on dressers and a desk lined another wall. The shelves filled with books, pictures and assorted treasures a young girl might collect. An open chest along another wall held dresses and on a shelf above the dresses sat some dainty hats and purses. There was a white child-sized rocker with a pillow covered in a fabric that matched the old-fashioned floral wallpaper and windows framed in lace curtains. It was a charming, if dusty, room.

Curiosity drew Sara to the bookcases and to the pictures on the shelves. There were lots of family pictures, but one, especially, caught Sara’s eye. It was a picture of a blond girl with blue eyes, who looked a lot like Sara and who Sara figured must have been about her age. In her arms was a handsome black cat with beautiful mahogany brown eyes.

“Oh, dear,” Sara thought out loud. “It’s Shade.”

Sara knew the picture had to be 50 years old by the dress the girl had on and how she wore her hair. So, there was no way the cat in the picture could still be alive.

The cat…Sara had forgotten about the cat. She turned to the door and there, sitting on the rocker, was a black cat with mahogany brown eyes.

The sight of the cat caught her breath.

“Don’t be afraid, Sara,” the cat said, kindly. “I am sorry if I scared you.”

“You can talk!” Sara said in amazement.

“I can do a lot of things,” the cat replied, “but, wanting to scare you isn’t one of them.

“The girl in the picture was my best friend,” he said, with sadness in his voice. “Her name was Laurie. She got very sick. They took her to a hospital to get well, but Laurie never came home.

“For all of these years,” he went on, “I have waited in this house for her return. It has been a long time and I have been very sad and lonely.”

“I don’t think Laurie’s coming home, Shade,” Sara said.

“You know my name,” the cat said in surprise.

“My Uncle Joe told me your story,” Sara replied. “I have always thought it was just another of his made up tales. But, you are real…then, again, maybe not really, real, are you?”

“I’m afraid not…real, that is,” Shade replied. “But, I could be again, if someone loved me enough to make me their friend and care for me. I miss all the good things a cat and its human share…especially, the love.”

Sara approached the cat. “I could love you, Shade. I, too. need someone to love and care for…a dear and special friend.”

She reached to stroke the cat’s head, but when she did, there was nothing but air.

Sara jumped backwards, almost falling over a toy lying on the floor. She steadied herself and looked at the cat, which she could still see but not touch.

“Fairy Princess Sara,” the cat said, “if you want to be my friend, wave your magic wand over me and say, ‘Shade, no longer will you be a shadow in the night, but my Shade in the light of day.’

“If you believe the magic, Sara, it will be as you believe.”

Sara raised the magic wand. Waving it over the cat, she said, “Shade, no longer will you be a shadow in the night, but my Shade in the light of day.”

As the magic wand moved through the air tiny, sparkling stars fell from its tip and over the cat. They merged in one bright light, and then, along with the cat, disappeared.

In place of the cat sat a black kitten with beautiful, mahogany brown eyes.

“Oh, my,” said Sara, as she bent down and reached to pet the kitten. This time, her hand stroked its soft black fur.

“Oh, my wonderful Shade,” she said, picking up the purring kitten and holding him close. “You are the best Halloween treat, ever. Let’s go home.”

Karen A. Lynch, Copyright 2008

Having a loving relationship with a pet is one of the great pleasures in life. When we are happy, they share our joy. When we feel the need to play, they are eager participants in our games. When we need some quiet time, they are content to lie beside us and share our dreams. And, when we are sad, they seem to know how best to bring a smile back to our faces.

But of all the elements that make up the bond we have with our animal friends, none is more important then the trust that exists between us. None of the above would be possible without that underlying assurance that we can be trusted to always do what is in their best interest.

Sometimes trust comes easily, but most often it must be earned. And so it was with a cat named Sayde.

For 20 years, I have been rescuing cats. I am lucky to have a friend who is a cat vet, who assists me in placing the many kittens I have rescued. But, for the most part, I am caretaker and friend to the many adult cats not considered adoptable, and who end up living out their lives in my care.

There is one cat, a brown tabby with white markings, who chooses to live his life outdoors, but who is basically my cat. He has chosen me and my house as his permanent residence and takes all of his meals and most of his companionship from me. His name is Scooter.

Scooter has a mission in life. It is his objective to see that all of the mother cats with kittens are escorted to my door, so they may have a chance at a better life than the one living on the streets would provide.

The first I realized this was Scooter’s intention was one warm, spring day in 2002.

I had fed Scooter, and the other assorted neighborhood cats that frequented my Cat-a-teria, which is located in my front yard. Their breakfast eaten, they would go about their business of the day. Save for Scooter, who spent his afternoons lounging under the oak tree. They would not be back until the 5:00 p.m. dinner call.

I began cleaning up the flower beds and sweeping the walk. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught site of Scooter coming up the drive. In tow, were a black and white mother cat and her four kittens.

Scooter came up to me, but the mother cat remained a safe distance away, her tiny kittens keeping close to her side.

From the mode of communication that Scooter and I have developed over the years, Cat Speak, I concluded that what he had in mind was breakfast for his new found friends. So, I left them, went into the house and returned with an additional meal for Scooter, a bowl of food for mom and a saucer of milk for the kittens.

Scooter went right to eating his food, but when I approached the mother cat, she began to hiss and growl. The kittens ran for cover. I stopped in my tracks and put the food down where I was, then quietly retreated into the house. I could see from my vantage point behind the front door, mom and the kittens making short work of the meal.

^top^

And so it was, from then on, twice a day Scooter, momma cat, to whom I gave the name of Sayde, and her four kittens made their appearance at mealtimes. Over time, I thought Sayde would quit the growling and hissing, but she persisted in making it known, that though she might be grateful for the free meals, she wanted me to keep my distance.

I had hoped to make friends, so that I could tame her and the kittens and take them to the vet, where they would be cared for and with luck find good homes. Sayde’s attitude did not bode well for that happening anytime soon.

The kittens, three of which were the same black and white as their mom, and a fourth, that was a plain grey tabby, were growing quickly. I was afraid if I didn’t tame them soon, they would not find the homes I hoped to get for them.

Then one morning, Sayde showed up alone. It was clear, by her demeanor, that she was ill.

Oh, this is a good one, I thought. She is sick. I need to take her to the vet. How am I supposed to get this hissing, growling feline there?

My neighbor, Joe, who is retired and who spends a good deal of his time sitting in his front yard, was observing the goings on.

I looked over at him and said, “This is going to be interesting. Sayde is sick and needs to go to the vet. I need to get her in a carrier to take her there. What do you think the chances are I am going to get that done without losing a hand?”

He just shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

I went in the house to get a carrier thinking she would be gone by the time I got back. But, there she sat. I put the carrier down a short distance from her and walked away.

“Sayde,” I said, and she responded by looking at me.

Wow, I thought, this is seriously nuts. You don’t actually think she is going to get in that box, do you? Heck!

“Sayde,” I repeated, “You are sick. I have to take you to the vet. You have to get in the box.”

Right!

Trust is something we sometimes have to earn. Someone willing to put all their trust in you when it counts most is your reward for your efforts.

Sayde walked to the box, gave it a sniff and walked in and sat down – no lie, I promise you.

A small, but very important miracle had just occurred.

I closed the carrier door, placed her on the back seat of my truck and took her to the vet. She was sick indeed, and would require hospitalization. I left her there and returned home wondering where in the world were her kittens.

Scooter provided the answer, when he came marching up the drive followed close behind by four confused and hungry kittens. They ate and before I could round them up, he had made off with them.

The next morning, kitten sitter, Scooter, was back with his young charges. One night guarding four motherless kittens was more than even the brave hearted Scooter could take. So, discretion being the better part of valor, he left them with me.

I was able to round them up and take them to the vet. But, their mom was too sick to care for them. After determining they were old enough to make it on their own, they got weaned.

Eventually, Sayde recovered, and the two male, black and white kittens found homes. But, Sayde and her two girls came to live with me. I named the black and white one Oreo, and the grey one, Misty Mu.

Sayde staked out my office as her space of choice and moved in with her girls. They are my company and my inspiration, as I ply my trade as a writer and publisher.

Yesterday, much to our dismay, Sayde chose to move on to her heavenly home. There she will reside safe in the care of her creator, who saw fit to share her with us for much too short a time.

Trust is something we sometimes have to earn and nourish, but once achieved is rewarded with a lifetime of gratitude and love.

I had moved to Florida to be with my soon-to-be husband, Gray, while Elizabeth had remained in our home in Kentucky.

A couple of days later, she called to tell me that she had bought a Chow puppy. He was ginger colored and resembled a cuddly bear cub, and so she had named him Ginger Bear.

Elizabeth had been raised with animals all of her life, and knew the value of training. So, Bear was soon enrolled in obedience class. Because of the Chow reputation, she also took advantage of her job at a saddlery shop to accustom him to mixing with people and other dogs. Horse people take their dogs with them everywhere, so there was a steady stream of new canine faces for Bear to meet, while Elizabeth saw to the needs of their humans.

A few months later, we sold our Kentucky home. Elizabeth, and Bear, came to live with Gray and me.

It was clear from the beginning that whatever had been written or said about Chows did not apply to Bear. He was, as is the case with most Chows, quiet and reserved, but he did not have a mean bone in his body. You could see his kind gentleness in his eyes and read it in his demeanor. Gray and I both fell in love with him.

When Bear was about a year old, Elizabeth moved back to Kentucky. The young man she had been dating for most of her college years had finally proposed and she went back to make plans for a Kentucky wedding.

Doug had been introduced to Bear and spent time with him when he had visited our home. All seemed well between them until Bear, not knowing it was Doug coming through the door of Elizabeth’s new apartment, because he could not see him behind the large box he was carrying, growled at Doug. It was more that Bear was afraid of the weird sight of a walking box than that he was angry with Doug. However, Doug, who, as a child, had been bitten by his family’s German Shepard, instantly, became afraid of Bear.

The next thing I knew, Elizabeth was on the phone to me in tears. She told me about the incident, and said Doug had told her she would have to make a choice between him and Bear. Heartbroken, she said she would need a new home for Bear.

“He already has a home, Elizabeth,” I said. “This is his home. Bring him back to me.”

The years passed and there was nary another incident with Bear.

Our house backs up to a lake. I would let Bear out in the back yard on a long line that allowed him to roam the boundaries of our property. Strangers would walk along the edge of the lake right past Bear. Never did he even offer to bark at them. The neighborhood children all loved Bear. When they would see him out in the yard, they would come running. They loved to hug the dog that looked like a big fuzzy bear and he loved their attention. He would let them hug and pet him all they wanted.

We had guests stay with us all the time, they could come and go as they pleased never bothered or worried about Bear not letting them back in when they returned with or without us.

Then, late one night, Gray and I were fast asleep. We were wakened by a noise such as nothing we had ever heard before. It was like the deep and angry roar of a lion, and was followed by sharp, angry barking and growling. It was Bear. I knew there must be trouble, serious trouble to cause him to act in this manner.

I headed down the stairs, calling to Bear. He came to me. The hair on his body was standing on end and there was a low rumbling growl still in his throat. I told him to be quiet. The growling stopped.

I could see movement and what appeared to be headlights in the back yard. Slowly, I edged my way to the sun porch. The vinyl windows, fogged with age, hindered a clear view of the yard, but also offered me cover as I made my way stealthily across the room, Bear at my heels.

Using the doorframe for cover, I slid open one of the windows. I was surprised to see that the headlights were from a sheriff’s car parked in my back yard, a deputy standing beside it. I opened the window and asked “Anything wrong, deputy?”

“No, Ma’am,” he replied, with no further explanation.

“You’re sure?” I asked, feeling some sort of explanation for him using my backyard as a parking lot, and sending my otherwise calm dog off the deep end, was in order.

“Yes, Ma’am,” was the sum total of his response.

“Right!” I replied. “Well then, good night, deputy.”

“Night, Ma’am.”

Obviously, he was a man of few words.

^top^

I patted Bear on the head and sent him back to his bed and I went back to mine. Nevertheless, something wasn’t right. My instincts made me rise again, and putting Bear on his long leash, I headed out the front door towards the corner of the street. On reaching the corner, I could see the deputy’s cruiser was now parked in the cul de sac that faced the lake. Off on the lawn, behind the corner house, was an older model Lincoln sedan.

Bear and I walked toward the cars. As we passed the rear end of the Lincoln, I could see the deputy bent over, searching the front seat of the vehicle. Not wanting to startle him, I coughed, and said, “Ah, deputy, you still sure nothing is wrong?”

He came out of that car like a shot. Then, seeing it was just Bear and me, he relaxed.

“Well, there was a bit of a problem,” he said, walking our way. Without hesitation, he reached down and patted Bear on the head. Bear licked the deputy’s hand.

“I was driving on the main road and thought the car in front of me was suspicious, so I ran the license plate,” he explained. “Turns out the owner had an outstanding arrest warrant for drug trafficking, I turned on my lights to pull him over and he took off.

“I chased him into your village and up into this cul de sac here,” he went on. “I guess he didn’t know it was a dead end, and ended up ditching the car and taking off on foot. There were three other guys in the car with him. They ran through the back yards ’till they got to your house, then they cut through your side yard and over the fence to the street.”

So that was why Bear had gone ballistic. He thought they were trying to get into our house. If they had thought to do it, the sound of Bear’s lion’s roar must have convinced them otherwise.

As the deputy and I were talking, an older model Cadillac Eldorado pulled up to the entrance of the cul de sac and stopped. A tall, heavy-set, black man got out of the car. The deputy walked to his cruiser, bent over and was reaching for his radio. The man approached him, and positioned himself so that he had the deputy pinned in the car.

I could hear they were having words and not of the friendly variety.

I looked down at Bear. He was no longer sitting beside me relaxed, but standing at full attention, his coat standing on end as it had been inside the house. He stepped forward a bit and I released my hold on the long line just slightly. As the two men’s exchanges became more heated, I could see Bear’s demeanor growing more hostile. I let out the line a bit more and Bear took another step forward.

This time the motion caught the man’s attention, though he kept up his menacing tone, he did it now with one eye on the deputy and one eye on Bear, who was edging ever closer, a low, rumbling growl coming from deep in his throat. The man moved away from the cruiser. Still with one eye on us, he said something in a harsh tone to the deputy, and then, quickly moved to his car, got in and took off.

Bear and I went to the cruiser, where a pretty shaken deputy was now leaning against a rear door. “Thanks,” he said, more to Bear, than to me. “That was the brother of one of the guys that I was chasing. He wanted me to turn the Lincoln over to him. I told him no, but.”

He took a deep breath and steadied himself, and said, “I don”t know what he would have done, if you two hadn’t been here. Really, thanks.”

“No problem, deputy, right place, right time, I guess,” I said with a reassuring smile.

“That’ a good dog you’ve got there, Ma’am. Knows the good guys from the bad, doesn’t he?”

“That he does!” I said as I gave Bear a big hug. “He’s my silent sentinel.”

I could see things were back under control, so I said, “Well, maybe I’ll just head on home, and see if I can get back to sleep now that the excitement’s over.”

I have no idea what happened after we left. There was nothing in the newspaper or on the TV news. But, I know one thing for sure, they can say what they want, write what they want, but they can never convince me a Chow is anything but the best breed of dog on this planet. The proof is in the Ginger Bear.

© Karen Lynch 2008

I hope you enjoyed the story of my wonderful friend, Bear. I have had a lot of dogs in my life, but Bear certainly holds a special place. We lost Bear about three years ago, but not a day goes by that I am not reminded of him. Especially, when I look at the area behind the recliner in my office, which Bear had chosen to make his den. I rescue cats, so we always have a house full of feline friends. Chows are very cat-like in their behavior, so he felt right at home with his feline buddies, especially King Tut, pictured with him in our back yard. I think Bear wished to be a cat, and I often wonder when a new cat comes calling, if it’s not Bear in cat clothing. Animals leave an indelible stamp on our lives and our souls. We are so blessed to have them as our friends.

Time has passed since Lady Angel left this life. Her surviving four kittens are doing very well. Oreo, the black kitten found a home with a young girl that lives up the street. The two Tortie sisters, I call them the Fairy Slipper Sisters, Angel and Amber, and their ginger tabby brother, the Magic Leprechaun Cat, Finn McCool, remain with me. They are now a little over seven months old.

About a month ago, I was outside in my front yard serving the night meal to my feline friends. Scooter, the cat who brought me Lady Angel, was, as usual, supervising my efforts. Suddenly, Scooter became very alert, his attention drawn to a dark area in the garden.

I turned in the direction he was looking and I saw something move. Out of the high grass sprung a small kitten. The kitten ran off a few feet, stopped, then ran across the street. I followed close behind it and called to it. It stopped and faced me. I crouched down, so as not to frighten it, and called to it again. It straightway came back, and right to me.

I scooped it up in my arms, and held it close. It started purring and rubbing against me. I knew it had to be hungry and had come to eat, so I took it inside the house. There, I have a permanent set up for just such an occasion. It is a small crate, that contains a bed, a litter box and water and food dishes.

Once inside the house, I was able to get a good look at the kitten. To say I was surprised at what I saw was an understatement. The kitten in my arms was a perfect match for the Fairy Slipper Sisters, the same Tortie color, four white feet and a white bib and tummy. The fact that she had come from the place where I had buried their dead kitten sister only added to the mystery.

I put her in the crate and got her a meal that she promptly ate. Then, I let her rest for the night sleeping safely in her warm bed, and headed back outside to finish feeding Scooter and his friends.

The next morning, I took the new arrival upstairs to where Finn and the Sisters were staying.

There was absolutely no difference between the kitten that I held in my arms and the two female kittens, Angel and Amber, who met me at the top of the stairs. They had the same tortoiseshell color, the same amber eyes, the same white markings and were even the same size, an indication that they were probably about the same age. The lone difference between them was that the kitten in my arms had a long, silky coat and a very fluffy tail.

I did not set the new kitten down, as I wanted to have the vet examine her before I exposed the other kittens to her.

When I took her to the vet, everybody there was amazed by the similarity. In fact, they thought I had brought back one of the original kittens. She got a clean bill of health, save for some fleas and the fact she had not been neutered. The fleas were easily dealt with, and the neutering put off for another day.

Then, the important decision had to be made. Would she stay and become a member of the family? Finn McCool settled that by becoming totally enamored with the new arrival, fawning shamelessly over her to the exclusion of his two sisters. The next question was what to name our mystery lady.

It was a tradition when I was growing up for the youngest in the family to be called Punkin as a term of endearment. I was called Punkin, and so too, was my daughter, Elizabeth, and more recently, my granddaughter, Amy. So, since she was the newest arrival, I named her Punkin.

Punkin is now a full member of the McCool clan. But, I am sorry to report that Finn is no longer enamored with her. He was all for looking after her when he thought she was a helpless orphan. But, he soon learned that she was a wildcat in disguise, leaping and pouncing on everyone in turn. After he got his clocked cleaned a time of two, Finn decided he best be leaving her alone.

She has since mellowed and fits in perfectly. But, what does one make of the mystery of her sudden appearance from the exact spot where the kitten, which had perished at birth, was buried? From where did she come? How could it be that she is a perfect match in appearance and age for the Fairy Slipper Sisters? Cats are said to have nine lives. Could it be she still has eight left?

April was one of several cats that partook of the food I set out and that was available around the clock.

Of all my feline visitors, Scooter, a brown tabby with white markings, is my favorite. I believe, for Scooter, the best part of a visit to my house, besides the gourmet meals I serve him, is the companionship he and I share. Scooter patiently waits for me to notice he has arrived before eating. I then join him in my outside sitting area, and while he eats, we converse in a language only we understand. It doesn’t hurt our relationship that I love him. He especially loves to be groomed with a soft brush.

Scooter has a mission in life. It is to make sure that all the neighborhood Mother cats and their litters are guided to my door, thus insuring their safety, and good homes for them and their kittens.

It was in March, that I began to notice April’s physique had changed. The once sleek body was beginning to show signs of a protrusion in her midsection. I redoubled my efforts to befriend the now pregnant cat, but she was not interested. April continued to take her meals and run. Though, now, her ever expanding belly and her familiarity with my non-threatening presence made her departures less a blur and more a saunter. So when she came and went on the morning of April 24^th, I thought nothing of it.

Scooter and the other regulars had also paid their morning visit and departed, leaving me to go about my morning chores. Since a trip to the store was on my list of things to do, I picked up my purse and headed out the door and across my front yard to my pickup truck. Halfway across the front yard, I caught sight of Scooter coming up the driveway. He was not alone. About three feet behind him, tagging along, was April. It was the first time I had seen her in the daylight and saw that she was not black as I had thought, but black and orange – a tortie, and a pretty one, at that.

I came back to my outside seating area and took a seat. Scooter came right up and did his usual hello rub up against my legs. Then, he sat down in front of me and began to talk. Not in words, of course, but in various meows, which I took as serious cat speak, given that he had April in tow.

April had taken a seat a short distance from us and was observing Scooter’s and my interaction. When Scooter paused for a moment, I assumed that she took that as her cue to approach me, and just as Scooter had done, the previously unapproachable April began rubbing against my legs. I reached down to pet her, and this time, she offered no resistance.

Introductions concluded, April set out to make her purpose known.

My front door is glass from top to bottom. Seated inside the house and peering through the door were three of my biggest house cats, Tuff Tuff, Ch-eng and MOSI Max.

April, undaunted by the unfamiliar felines eyeing her up, proceeded to walk to the front door and rub up against it. The cats inside, ever the gentlemen, sat their ground and did not make any attempt to approach the preggie stranger at their door.

When I did not respond to her ovation, she returned to where I sat, rubbed against my legs and returned to the front door, indicating with a very stern meow, that she wanted in.

Now, I know what your thinking, this is a great tale, and I have a vivid imagination, but on my life, I swear all of what I am writing is true – and this is not the half of it.

By this time, Scooter, looking very pleased with himself at having completed another successful mission, had taken a seat off to the side, his demeanor indicating that the ball, or more correctly, the pregnant cat, was now in my court. I got up, walked past April and into the house. I returned to my seat with a cat carrier, which I placed on the ground next to me, its door ajar.

“Okay,” I said to April. “You want in. This is how it has to go down.”

“See all those cats in the door?” I went on. “Well, there are more like them inside. They don’t know you from Adam, so you can’t just up and walk in the front door. If you want in, the first step is to get in the box.”

I know, about now, you’re thinking I’m really snorting some serious stuff, if I think this cat, that I couldn’t lay hands on previously, is just going to up and march into that carrier.

Well, she did just that – without hesitation. She panicked for a moment when I shut the door. But, Scooter was quick to come over and sooth her fears with a gentle meow, and that was that. I thanked Scooter, picked up the carrier, and April moved in to my house.

The cats that reside in my house are all foundlings. On occasion, when they are ill and in need of a little TLC and privacy, I put them in a dog crate I have set up in a corner of my bedroom as my infirmary. It has a vinyl covered padded floor, a pyramid shaped, soft-sided cat bed with a plump pillow to rest in, food and water dishes and a litter box. It is roomy, comfortable and safe.

I set April in the carrier on the living room floor and covered the carrier with a beach towel. This would allow the inside cats to get a sniff of the new member of the family, but not get too close and scare April. Then, I went about disinfecting the infirmary and trying to figure out how best to turn it into a maternity ward. I decide I would let April decide if it met with her approval.

I brought the carrier upstairs and opened the carrier door just inside the entrance to the crate. April walked right in and set about checking out her new digs. She stopped when she got to the pyramid cat bed and looked at me as if to say, “You don’t expect me and my family to fit in that measly thing?”

To make her point, she climbed on it and flattened it to the floor. It was quickly replaced by one of those high-sided, foam dog beds. It fit the width of the crate and offered all the amenities a pregnant cat could hope for in which to give birth.

The next afternoon, we were four kittens richer.

Momma April proudly displayed the four; one black, two torties, like herself, and one bright orange tabby. All had four white feet and white on their chests.

The new arrivals were a bright spot in what had been a very trying month. My elderly husband, Gray, has been very sick. A week after the kittens were born, he ended up in the hospital, where he remained for a month.

Everything was going great with the kittens. When they were too young to go anywhere, I let April have the run of the bedroom, so she could get some exercise and a little down time from kitty sitting. It was a great experience. The kittens were now almost five weeks old, and it appeared that they and their mother were thriving.

A week after Gray returned home from the hospital, his congestive heart failure, which had plagued him on and off for years, took a turn for the worse. We decided he needed to go to the emergency room. It was late in the afternoon, I fed April and all seemed well with her and the kittens. Then, I drove Gray to the emergency room. At 2:30, the next morning, they admitted Gray back into the hospital and I returned home.

Having been gone so long from home, the first thing I checked on was the kittens. Something did not appear right. April was laying half in and half out of the bed. I said something to her, but she didn’t move. Quickly, I opened the crate door and touched her. To my horror, she was dead.

Suddenly, what had been the bright spot in my life turned to an overwhelming sense of sadness. The kittens, huddled around their dead Mother, were whaling, their tiny voices adding to the misery of the situation.

How could this be, I implored the empty room, as there was no one but me to share the anguish I felt. She was perfectly all right when I’d left her, and had never displayed any illness whatsoever the entire time she had been with me.

I put aside my feelings and set about cleaning up the crate. I wrapped April’s body in a towel and placed her in a plastic tub that once held kitty litter and that would protect her from the other cat’s curiosity until I could get her to my veterinarian the next morning. Then, I sat down on the floor; the kittens snuggled in my lap, and cried.

The elusive April must have known she was dying, that’s why she asked to be let in the house. How brave was she to risk the unknown, to give her kittens a chance to survive. How trusting was she in me to know that I would care for them when she was gone. How generous was she to give me such a precious gift of her tiny family. How very sad it is that such a dear soul is gone.

The kittens, having grown close to me in the five weeks before their Mother’s death, are doing just fine. They have accepted me as their surrogate Mom, and are affectionate, sweet, wonderful, little babes, full of life and joy.

It has been my habit that when one of my feline family members passes on, I have them cremated. When my time to leave this earth comes, I have requested that their ashes be placed in my coffin, so that we will be together for eternity.

Because of April’s gallant, unselfish deed, I rechristened her Lady April. And, though she had only been with us for five short weeks, I had her cremated, so she, too, could be with me forever, a most honored member of our family.

The other day, I got a call from my vet to tell me Lady Angel’s ashes had been returned.

“Lady Angel?” I said. And was about to correct the misnomer, when suddenly I was struck by the irony of the mistake. Indeed, she was Lady Angel and this was the Lord’s way of telling me her real name, and that now she was safe in his loving care.

© Illustration by Cheyenne Booker

When my daughter, Elizabeth, began her search for a college to attend, we made a trip out West to check out the Scripts Institute at the University of Southern California at San Diego. At that point in time “E” wanted to be a marine biologist and Scripts was one of the best schools in that discipline.

We had not had a vacation in a long time, so we decided to stop for a couple of days on our way home in Phoenix, Arizona to see the sights and rest. We chose a Hilton Resort called Point Tapitio.

One of the recreational activities offered at the resort was horseback riding. We thought riding through the desert would be a great, new experience and booked a ride. Since it was summer, they advised riding early in the morning, as in 6:00 a.m.

In the morning, before dawn, the courtesy car came to take us to the stable. When we arrived, we were told that our escort for the morning’s ride would be a Muscalero, Apache Indian named Robert.

I was really excited to meet Robert, as I had just recently read a book on the Muscalero Apaches and had a million questions to ask him.

Robert brought out our mounts, and “E” and I swung up into the saddle and off we went. Try as I might, I could not get Robert to say a word, to say I was disappointed was an understatement.

The scenery we were riding through was desert, and pretty stark and rocky, yet quite beautiful in its own way. We rode along silently for quite a ways. Then, the sun rose and made what at first was a drab desert dance with color.

I commented on the beautiful sunrise to “E” and she agreed. Then, my eyes focused on the trail before us. It had become very rocky and I was worried for the horses.

I said to “E”, “You know “E” when you watch those cowboy movies, the cowboys and Indians always gallop lickety split through the desert, but if this is what their galloping over they have to be nuts.”

Out of nowhere, Robert said, “Not Indians, Italians.”

I said, “What?”

And he proceeded off on a tirade about how the movie industry didn’t use real Indians in the movies, but rather Italians. Indians knew better than to gallop over rocky terrain.

After that, we couldn’t shut Robert up. He lectured on every conceivable slight to Indians that had ever been perpetrated by the “White” man.

“E” and I took it all in with amusement. But, we did show empathy toward his point of view. He even told us about being part of the modern day uprising at Wounded Knee.

We had a great ride and upon returning to the stable, thanked Robert appropriately with a big tip, and then headed back to our hotel.

The next morning as we were preparing to leave, the young woman at the reception desk called me over. She handed me a box, and said, “Robert said to give this to you. How did you ever get Robert to say anything? He never speaks to anyone.”

I opened the box and inside was a beautiful Indian necklace made of multi-colored beads.

The girl saw it and gasped. “That’s a very special necklace,” she said. “Robert must think a great deal of you.”

I never saw Robert again, but I still have the necklace, which I treasure.

End of story.