Kathe Campbell

Retreating from my lodge to feed the donkey herd, a pitiful looking stray with tangled masses of rangy clothing protruding down his back sat and watched. I bent low for the cat to eat from my hand, but despite hunger, he was terrified to venture close. So I left an old woolen army blanket and a daily bowl of chow atop the tallest bale in the hay-room where he seemed almost content if his matted, orangey coat hadn't finally overwhelmed his tongue.

Cooler nights must have warned cat he wouldn't survive another winter as he peeked over the bales with his hackles up. Murmuring soft kitty sounds while at my chores, I reached up to touch his head just once before he panicked and fled. Then one 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've got you now. I won't rush you, take your time dear old thing," as my crippled fingers nuzzled cat's neck. He was home.

He had likely endured rugged exploits in our mountains, so I called him General Sterling Price after a Civil War general of some reknown. He learned his name quickly while my dog followed him around for days, watching him roll in delicious green grass, thoroughly fascinated by his gamy and bizarre self.

I wondered how old the General was. Surely in his teens, looking grizzled after losing an eye, various teeth and claws, and another of his nine lives. Winter found him curled up atop the bear before the fireplace, and occasionally a stroll into the barn where the mice had his number. So thin and tired I oftimes carried him to his bowl of milk and special supper that 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. We joyfully pursued our dotage together while the General longingly eyed the fur-covered cedar chest at the foot of our bed. He workd his way up, thrumming sweet love songs in my ear every night - then silence. Ahead of our hard freeze I wept cold tears while making his resting place beneath giant firs, so glad he had chosen me to soothe his tattered body and loving soul.

Devoid of mews and purrs, I was sadly catless for the first time, and wondered if the General's dauntless spirit would rescue me with another vagabond or two. Then one day the radio touted a no-kill shelter where animals were altered, given their shots, and offered for a donation. I grabbed the kitty crate, a scarce fifty dollar bill from my foxy pocket, and the dog and I jumped in the truck.

It was fun picking out a couple half-grown raucous youngsters. After the dog gave our new kids the ranch tour, they discovered the laundry room doggy door and kitty amenities upon their counter. While they dibsed favorite lounging spots, I emailed their photos to the neighbors should there be unwanted intrusions into the local feline establishment.

Spring and "the year of the mouse" arrived, for upon lifting the hood of my truck at my dealership one morning, the service manager and I stood stunned. The fire wall and most of the wiring was stripped bare. The thought of breathing in deadly deer mouse Hantavirus from the heater or A/C crossed my mind and left me cringing. Shy, the yellow ringtail, was no mouser, for she preferred following me around, caressing my ankles and impeding my gait.

Between forest fire smoke and the unique legion of mice, summer upon these lush acres was torturous. Holes were plugged with steel wool, but the varmints continued their invasions, bent on making my house theirs. I loathed using poisons, for the rascals always checked out beneath the warmth of the freezer, and there were always drowned carcasses in the dog's water.

While my premises remained infested, the neighbors were nearly liberated from the epidemic. They remarked their best mousers had been taught the kill by their mothers or other cats. My two didn't have a clue. Spook, the playful, black, devilish guy, was a fair hunter, but lazy about bushwhacking outlaws sprinting across the carpet. He viewed mice as toys until tiring of the game, rendering every creature half dead. The sorry victims sought solemnity in their demise and I was left with smelly corpses under something everywhere.

Then miracle of miracles -- eyes glowing and feet tipped with tiny daggers, hungry fledgling hawks swooped in, becoming every rodent's worst nightmare. Fascinated by such sport, the kitties finally got the picture. Spook and Shy exterminated vermin daily, earning their keep and divesting our log home, outbuildings, and eventually our land of the scourge.

It's so nice to be back to normal. God must love me and my felines, despite their once draggy pursuits, for Mother Nature is decorating our mountain in another winter's yuletide raiment tonight. My hunters stretch and yawn before the fireplace and I'm not sure if that lovely low purr is coming from the kitties, my sweet angelic General, or from my own heart. Wherever it comes from, it conjures up youthful heroic deeds, and I've come to feel sorry for folks who hate cats, for they just might return as mice in their next life!

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. Email her at Montana