Cat Tales 25
The orange tabby showe d up on the front porch of our Montana farmhouse in mid - October, looking quite pregnant. Because of the season and her coloring, we na me d her Autumn, and she quickly settled in. A few weeks and no kittens later, the vet pronounced “healthy cat, just fat.” Whatever her past life, she had obviously lived with dogs before and wasn’t bothere d a bit by their canine ways. Alfre, the Samoyed- retrieve r mix who’d come to us as an abandoned puppy with a shrunke n tummy and bloody paws, forme d a close bond with Autumn, and the two ofte n nappe d togethe r, the furry white dog curled around the full -figured tabby. Our two young borde r collies tried to he rd he r, but she’d hop on a chair or climb a tree and ignore the m.
One afternoon whe n one of the collies got a little bossy, Autumn swatte d the dog on the nose and sent her tumbling off the front porch. Afte r that, the re was little doubt who was at the top of the animal kingdom in our house.
Years passed, years in which Autumn gre w no slimmer and showed little interest in the out- of-doors. We move d from farm country to the woods at the base of the Swan Mountains in Montana, living on acres of dense pine and fir forest laced with snowberry and wild spirea, black hawthorn, bi rch, and aspen. Serviceberry, ceanothus, and a hundre d othe r shrubs and forbs created a lush understory whe re a cat could roam for hours. But Autumn quickly established her domain, inside .
She was Queen of the Fireplace, stretching out in front of the glass window and soaking up the warmth the gas flames gave off. Dame of the Davenport, he r realm the middle cushion, where he r short gold hairs formed the shape of a crown on the dark green upholstery. Empress of the Office, where she spent most mornings on the red willow love seat that faces my desk, raising her regal head only at unfamiliar sounds: in winter, the heavy snow sliding off the metal roof and crashing to the deck below, startlin g us both; in early spring, the northe rn flickers trying in vain to pluck insulation for their nests from the roof vents; a heavy summe r rain; the grinding noise of the propa ne truck making its first delivery in fall.
I didn’t mind Autumn’s prefere nce for the hea rth and couch. Despite the lesson she’d taught the border collie on the front porch and my own love of the woods, I feared that the wild animals who lived there, coyote, badger, fox, and raccoon, would make easy pickings of my sweet, innocent cat. I didn’t know Autumn as well as I thought. This far north, summe r evenings are glorious sensory treats: the clear blue afternoon skies give way to pink-and-gold sunsets, flecked with red in bad fire years. Fresh breezes spread the butterscotch scent of pine, thick in the air on days when neighbors have been cutting wood for wi nter. Songbi rds entertain, and the great horned owl who lives in the lodge pole forest on the southwest corne r of our land hoots for hours, a bass line unde rscoring the rhythmic peace of the mountainside.
One August evening we sat on the front deck as the light faded to black and watched the Perseid meteor showe rs in the northeast sky. I opened the door to head in for the night. Autumn slipped past me and headed outside. I was sure she’d be back soon, but as darkness deepened and she hadn’t re turned, our concern grew. My husband and I took turns calling her name ; she was that rare cat who actually responds when called. But not that night. We walked around the yard calling and calling. Finally, we fell into bed, though neither of us slept. After midnight, we heard a shriek from the woods east of the house. We both jumped up, thre w on our clothes, and dashed downstairs, flashlights in hand. We crossed the yard and headed for the woods, li stening again. In the moonlight, we exchanged looks, agreeing wordlessly not to call her name; we didn’t want to te mpt her to respond and let a predator know where she was. So we made othe r noises as we searched the woods, pushing the brush and branches roughly, stepping on sticks, hoping to frighten off wha tever wild creature had her in its sights. We heard more yelling, but couldn’t identify the source, no wild animal cry that we recognized and certainly not a sound a cat would make.
But still no sign of Autumn. I went back to the house to get Alfre, thinking either she would sniff out the cat or the cat would make a break for freedom when she realized the dog was on the scene. As Alfre and I crossed the yard, Autumn eme rged from the woods completely unscathed. She paused to brush noses with Alfre, hoppe d onto the front porch, and stepped inside the house as though nothing unusual had happene d.
That’s when we realized the screech that woke us wasn’t Autumn crying out in pain. It was Autumn letting her would-be stalker know who was Queen of the Woods.
Autumn lived several more years after her encounter with the Thing in the Woods, dying peacefully at seventeen. She re mained content to spend most of her time indoors, but in her last few weeks, she often came outside with us, spending hours curled unde rneath a blue spruce behind the house or dozing at the edge of the woods. I think now that as Autumn sensed her own death approaching, she returned deliberately to a more pri mal place. A place where life and dea th often meet. A place where she’d met death herself once and sent it screaming. Animals who have been abandoned, especially those who’ve been abused, as we suspect Autumn had bee n, are often the sweetest, so relieved to have found steady love that they give theirs freely. But Autumn taught me that they also have great reserves of strength and will and queenly courage.