Happy Tails

One of my daily childhood chores was to feed the cats. Even now I occasionally dream about it, and in my dream, it is always winter.  I don't know why this particular dream lingers in my mind, decades after I left the farm. Perhaps because I always loved the cats. They were an important part of my life, and they counted on me every day.

Feeding the kitties during winter was a bit of a production. Whereas in the summer they were simply given dry cat food, Mom believed that even the cats should have something warm to eat during the winter.  As family suppertime approached, Mom would drag out an old pan reserved for cooking kitty vittles. First she'd heat water on the stove. Once it was steaming, into the water went Carnation powdered milk, dried bread, leftover meat scraps and cooking grease. Once all the ingredients were near boiling, she'd pull it off the stove and toss in a spoonful of sugar. I never asked her why she added the sugar.  But, it may have simply been like most everything else my Norwegian mother cooked. A little sugar went into everything. The most common stews she made for the cats were beef milk, pork milk and chicken milk. The smell of the greasy hot milk, bread and meat was not very appetizing. The chicken milk had the nastiest smell. The beef and pork weren't so bad. But then again, I wasn't a hungry cat.

When the kitty stew came off the stove it was the cue for me to get into my winter wear. Depending upon how many layers I needed to ward off the cold, this could be an ordeal. I was pretty klutzy so I'd sit on the floor to pull on my stiff nylon snow pants and floppy rubber boots. Winter footwear consisted of thinly lined rubber boots, buckles atop, with bread bags over your socks to help keep your feet dry. My homemade coats were warm, with thick bulky insulation sewn into them. An itchy woolen scarf, hat and hand knit mittens were the last to be donned. By the time you were dressed you'd be sweating bullets and felt like an overstuffed sausage casing.  It was a blessed relief to go out into the cold.

Walking carefully was important to prevent the milk from slopping out of the cooking pan onto your duds.  Although it was a short walk to the barn, it could be painfully long if you were met by a stiff north wind. With each step I could hear the whisking sound of my nylon snow pant legs rubbing against each other and the clomp of my rubber boots carried loosely on my feet. The crisp snow cover amplified the sounds of my crunching footsteps as I trudged cautiously across the quiet yard.

Entering the darkened barn at night was what I most disliked about this routine. In the darkest moment between opening the heavy wooden barn door and snapping on the light switch, one could see several pairs of little amber eyes glowing back at you. Most of the time, those flashlight eyes belonged to hungry cats. But occasionally they belonged to a nasty old fox or skunk who was helping themselves to the dry cat food. Now, I know my parents told me that the skunks were WAY more afraid of me than I was of them, but I was still scared of what that big old bushy black and white tail could do to me.  I was always prepared to turn and run as fast as my loosely buckled rubber boots would take me.

Part of what motivated me to do my cat feeding chores was how eager the kitties were to see me. As soon as I entered the barn, they'd race up to me, furry tails stuck straight up like skewers. As I made my way down the concrete alley between the pig pens, the cats would meow frantically, weaving around my legs and each other in a frenzy. You had to shuffle your feet to not trip over them. Also greeting me was a snorting chorus of pigs bullying each other, vying for a spot at the edge of the pen. In the cold night air, miniature clouds of exhaled steam and pig snot blurted from their snouts as they sniffed at the aroma of the warm food. By the way, everything you've ever heard about how bad pigs smell is true. But, in the dead of winter, the stink wasn't so bad. Winter made for a much better olfactory experience than the acrid eau de pig that rose steaming in the summer heat.

When I poured the chunky milk, the cats would patiently push each other until each had claimed a spot along the edge of the food dish. With their thick winter fur coats puffed up, they'd draw down tight into a seemingly legless crouch.  All the desperate meowing would cease the second their noses tapped the greasy milk and their tongues began to rhythmically lap lap lap lappity lap lappity lick lickety lickety lick. With a dozen or more cats eating at one time, they made quick work of drawing off enough milk to get at the tidbits of meat that had descended to the bottom of the pan. Once they greedily snared the meat the growling would start. I'd stay and watch for a few minutes until bellies were full. After the growling ceased, the mutually affectionate grooming began, as the lot of them would lick clean each others greasy milk splattered faces.

I'm not sure of all the reasons that

made me a cat lover 

at such a young age. 

Maybe it was the appreciative purring 

and 

unconditional affection they offered. 

I guess the reasons don't really matter, 

as long as I still have

a place in my heart

and

in my dreams

for these happy memories.