Cat Musings – The Story of Fynn - Part I

“If you would know a man, observe how he treats a cat.” Robert A. Heinlein

Part I - Forest

Clouds drifted slowly across the moon and the air was thick with the heavy moisture of a humid late summer night. Sounds of the woods erupted from the ground – croaking frogs, chirping crickets, and the droning cacophony of cicadas.

Had it been 13 years already? the man thought to himself. In this part of the country, cicadas were “periodical bugs,” emerging from the soil every 13 or 17 years. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard one; only that he hadn’t missed it. A loud, irritating racket, that’s what it was...just like this damned cat.

The man who trudged through the woods that night on a mission of cruelty believed himself to be ridding his life of a scourge. He saw the helpless creature he carried in the cramped, dilapidated carrier, not as a living, breathing being, but rather as a worthless nuisance that cost money he didn’t want to spend. As far as he was concerned, cats were nasty creatures that polluted the yard with their feces and permanently fouled anything their toxic urine touched. They were flea-ridden, antisocial, bird-killing animals, although he couldn’t have cared less about birds being killed either. If he saw a cat in the road, he’d more likely swerve to hit it than slow to avoid running it over. One less of the mangy animals to breed more of them, he thought.

“P-tui!” He spit a stream of brown tobacco mixed with phlegm from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, which held a flashlight. In his other hand, he carried the crate. The animal that huddled in the cramped confines hadn’t made a sound since he lifted it out of the cab of his truck. That’s sure a change, he thought. The animal was typically wailing loud enough to wake the dead.

“In the middle of the stinkin’ night...every night,” he said aloud. “It don’t matter anymore.” He shook his head and smiled with satisfaction. That cat had been nothing but trouble since the day his wife brought him home. The last thing they needed was another effing cat. He didn’t like any of them anyway, but this one had to go.

There might have been two had it not been for his wife begging him not to take them both. The other cat had attacked this one more than once, and he had no tolerance for that kind of mayhem. Or for that woman’s blubbering over a damned animal, he thought. He’d have shot it if he’d had the chance, but the way she carried on! He would figure out a way to make the other one disappear too. He felt bad about hitting her, but she wouldn’t let up. He had no choice. It was the only way to shut her up.

He tugged at his sagging blue jeans and reached to pull aside another limb that blocked his way. His flashlight beam cast wild arcs through the canopy of pines, oaks, and Cyprus. Thank goodness it hadn’t rained lately, he thought, as a dry branch snapped under his boot.

When he came to a small clearing where a bed of pine needles and brush spread in a wide circle, he dropped the plastic crate. Stooping down, he tugged at the makeshift door made of chicken wire, testing its strength, and when he was satisfied, he stood up, stroked his scruffy mustache, and without looking back, retraced his steps out of the woods and back to his truck.

From inside the crate, the bewildered cat heard the sound of the truck engine as it faded into the night. He was crouched in a tight ball against the back of the carrier, his pupils wide so he could filter as much light as possible to see what lie outside his small enclosure. Nothing was familiar. The human voices he had grown accustomed to were gone, replaced now with strange night sounds. Shadows danced on the bed of pine needles as the warm wind blew through the trees. There was a faint rustling nearby, and he turned his head and perked his ears in the direction of the sound. He listened intently for a few minutes until the rustling ceased. Since he was confined to the carrier, he tucked his paws underneath his chest and tried to stay awake as he waited for someone to come back for him. Before he knew it, he had fallen asleep.

But it was a fitful sleep. With every sound, he would wake with a start, his eyes wide, focused immediately on the thick shadows in the woods around him. He couldn’t know that he had been sentenced to death – a slow, cruel death in a strange place with dangers all around him. He wasn’t equipped with the survival skills he would need. He didn’t know that this night was the first of what would be many endless days and terrifying nights. If no one came to his rescue, he might succumb to an attack by a wild animal or slowly starve to death.

The next day when the sun had begun to come up, the cat stood up – at least, as much as the carrier would allow – and tried to stretch. He didn’t know how unique he was. One might say he bore the traits of both a Bengal and a Siamese cat. His ears were the color of gray ash. The fur on his head and parts of his body was a cream color with darker stripes and patches here and there and spots on his hind quarters like a Bengal’s. His legs had dark horizontal stripes mixed with lighter cream-colored ones, and his tail also had the dark stripes. On his face he had the markings of a tabby, the “M” that legend says stands for “Madonna” or “Mary,” as in the mother of Jesus. The legend tells that a tabby cat was in the stable when Jesus was born and comforted him when he cried. The bottoms of his feet were dark, as was his nose except for a pink splotch shaped like an award ribbon in the middle. His most striking feature was his wide, bright blue eyes, a common trait for a Siamese.

In temperament, his Siamese traits were dominant. He was calm and even timid, but the latter of those attributes formed from the harsh, disapproving environment where he was often mistreated. A creature of routine, he could be demanding, and when he wanted something, his robust meow was hard to ignore. He was an intelligent creature that craved affection and bonded easily with a loving human, but his life had brought mostly confusion and hostility that he was ill-equipped to handle. Strong Bengal traits might have bolstered his personality, but unfortunately, his were only superficial – his beautiful coat and long, slender legs and tail. Why he found himself alone in the woods, trapped in a crate, he could not begin to understand.

He nosed the makeshift chicken-wire door, sniffing for scents. Near the bottom of one corner of the door, he found a gap through which the tip of his nose could barely fit. He pulled back and stared out at the woods where the man had left him. Birds flitted in the trees overhead, and in the distance, he could hear the hum of passing traffic. Suddenly his sharp eyes caught movement in the leaves and pine needles just in front of his enclosure. It was a beetle crawling slowly over the uneven surface. Instinctively, his paw pressed against the opening between the hexagonal rows of chicken wire, his sharp claws extending just beyond the wire edges, but the bug was out of reach.

He was hungry. He turned around in the narrow crate where the half-eaten hot dog lay that the man had absently tossed into the crate. It would have to do for now. But water was another matter.

Another day and night passed...and another...and another. The cat had nothing left to eat and no water. He had to try to escape from the carrier. The only weakness he had found was the gap in the corner where the chicken wire was fastened to the hard plastic crate. He began to try to break it loose. He raised his paw and hooked a couple of claws through the narrow gap in the wire and pulled. He felt a slight give, so he kept reaching, snagging the wire with his claws, over and over. “Ping...ping...ping,” the wire would snap after every tug, but he couldn’t tell if he was making any progress. Eventually, he grew tired. The sun began to bake the patches of ground where it managed to penetrate the heavy foliage of the forest. Hot and exhausted from his exertions, he sat back on his haunches, his mouth open and his tongue protruding as he strained for air. Eventually, he curled up on the floor of the crate, tucked his head under his paw, and took a long nap.

When he woke he could hear the faint sound of human voices. Even though they weren’t familiar, perhaps they could help him. “Mrrrr-owwww!” he cried as loudly as he could. “Mrrrrroowwwww!” But the voices faded away.

Unfortunately, his cries attracted an unwanted creature. The cat heard the “woof-woof!” and the sound of the brush and leaves under the dog’s feet as he ran closer and closer to the captive feline.

It was a big dog with a long snout, sharp eyes, and sleek dark coat. The dog sniffed frantically at the crate as the cat retreated into a tight ball at the back of the carrier, his eyes wide with terror. The dog stuck his nose through the hole in the wire and gave a forceful sniff, then pulled back and barked again. The sharp ring of it echoed through the trees. With his legs stretched out in front of him, he lowered his head and peered down his snout at the terrified cat. Instinctively, the cat lay his ears flat on his head, his pupils expanded so that the black swallowed up the bright blue, but that was as menacing as he could get. He wanted to produce a sinister howl from deep in his chest, a rumbling, quiet at first, like churning hot lava in the bowels of an active volcano that suddenly exploded into a warning so ominous, the dog would think twice about messing with him. But he was too frightened. The dog pawed at the wire that stretched across the door, and with every strike, a little more of it snapped away from the side of the crate and bent inward toward the frightened cat.

Some distance away from the direction of the passing traffic, a shrill whistle pierced the air and a voice could be heard calling, “Harley! Come!” The dog abruptly stopped his assault on the crate and stood still as a statue for half a second before bolting away towards the sound of his master’s voice.

To be clear, the dog wouldn’t have hurt the cat. He was only playing, the way dogs will do. And the cat, true to his nature, felt no good humor for the playful dog.

But this he knew: He had to get out of the carrier. With nothing to eat, he might last a few weeks, but he’d already gone without water for three days. He might not last another. In spite of the frightening encounter with Harley, the cat realized the dog had done him a favor. For as a result of Harley’s obnoxious mugging attempt, the hole in the wire was now big enough for him to escape.

There was no time to waste. As he pushed his head through the hole, he felt something poke his neck. He pulled back suddenly and the pain subsided a little. Had something bitten him? He didn’t know, but he knew he had to wiggle his way through in spite of the sting in his neck. He struggled and squeezed, twisted and squirmed to free himself. Kicking his back legs with all the strength he had, he shook himself out of the crate. Once free of it, he stood upright and looked back hesitantly at the cage that had been his prison, then turned to face the unknown hazards of the forest.

To be continued...