Cat Tales 44
Wind was howling its raucous song, noisy verses gathered from Canadian prairies, down across the Dakotas and Kansas. The cacophony swept across Oklahoma ’s panhandle like a million coyotes in chorus.
The year was 1935, and I was four years old. During the spring in that wide open country, it was rare to have a day without wind. Whe n it gathered strength in its unchecked journey across thousands of miles, the wind sounds could be frightening to a small child.
On one such morning, I lay tucked snugly in my low bed, wriggling deeper into a cocoon of wool comforters made by my grandmothe r. The front door opene d with a thump, wind driving it hard against the wall as Dad came in. Before dawn, when I’d wake ned momentarily, I had heard him leave the house. Later, I would learn that he had “gone on a story” for the local newspaper. He had been invited to accompany the town marshal to check on an old man who lived in a sod house f ar out of the little town where we lived. Mama and Dad’s voices were low murmurs as they tried not to wake me that morni ng. They often spoke that way, for we lived in two rooms of a large frame house that had been divided into small apartments. My iron bed was in a corner of the front room, which also served as the kitchen, dining, and living rooms. I liked lying in my bed listening to Mama and Dad talk, although often I did not understand the words. I closed my eyes and dozed again.
When next I ope ned them, I found myself staring into cat eyes just a few inches away. Through my sleepiness, a whole cat face emerged. I could not see its body, as its chin rested on the edge of my be d. Cats were always a part of my young life, tabbies, mostly, that I loved and cuddled. Gradually, as I came fully awake, I realized that the cat now so close to my face was different. After the yellow eyes, what I noticed most was its alert, pointe d ears with little tufts of fur standing up at the tips like tiny flags. Tiger strip es patterned its head and face. The cat continued to gaze into my eyes, as if we were in a contest to see which of us could last the longest without blinking. The mouth opened widely in a yawn, revealing efficient feline teeth and a bright pink tongue. The n the head disappeared as the cat curled up on the braided rug next to my bed.
I sat up then to view the whole creature, deciding immediately that this must be a present from Dad to me. Dad’s gifts were always different, never just a doll or book. I looked down and saw that while the head had stripes, the cat’s body had spots, and it was the largest cat I had ever seen! In fact, this cat appeared to be almost as large as I. Mama came over when she saw that I was awake and cautioned me not to pet the cat until it knew us better.
At breakfast, Dad told me about the old man who had raised the cat after it was orphaned while still a tiny kitten. He said the man had been a “hermit,” and I had to have that word explained. The old man had died, and Dad feared the big cat would die if left on its own.
“It’s a bobcat,” Dad told me. I knew the re were men na med Bob and assumed he just meant that this cat was called Bob. So Bob he was.
As with the domestic cats we had had, I quickly bonded with Bob. Mama was afraid to let him outdoors in case he got lost in town. Bob had been accustomed to roaming outside at night in the country and sleeping on the old man’s bed during the day. In our small apartme nt at night, Bob paced back and forth, his claws clicking on the linoleu m floor.
As he walked, he yowled and howled. Eve ntually, he woul d settle down at the foot of my bed, but Mama complained of being kept awake for hours by Bob’s nocturnal restlessness.
What Bob liked best was sitting with me in Dad’s big rocking chair. Bob was so big that he almost covered me when he tried to lie on my lap. His tail and back legs would hang off on one side and his head would loll halfway off the chair on the othe r, but he took long naps, purring loudly in his sleep. I loved it when he slept like that, for it gave me a chance to explore the intricate patterns of his fur. If I touched his whiskers, his hind feet gave a little kick, which I found funny. And I loved his big squishy paws, so enormous compa red to those of othe r cats I had known.
Bob’s wildness showed strongly when he was hungry. A can of salmon cost ten cents in those days, and that was the usual fare for our cats. Bob quickly learned to recognize the sound of a can opener and rushed toward Mama every time he heard it. As the days passed, this rushing became more aggressive and a low growl came from Bob’s throat. Mama grew convinced tha t he might attack her. He had already scratched her once when she did not get the salmon can open fast enough to suit him. He kept his claws sheathe d with me, as if he knew I was a baby, but he sometimes played roughly with Dad.
Mom preferred for Dad to feed Bob and began dropping hints that he should be looki ng for another home for the big cat. He was expensive to feed on Dad’s Depression -era salary.
Things came to a head one afternoon whe n Dad was late getting home from work. As Mama started to open a can of salmon, Bob gathere d his feet together as if he might jump on her.
She hopped up on our dini ng table, forgetting that cats can jump to great heights and the table was no protecti on at all. There she stood, “treed,” after hurling the half open can to the floor. Bob was struggling to extract his fish when Dad arrived. Of course, Dad laughed when he saw Mama up on the table, which did not help anything.
When I woke up the nex t morning, I looked all around for Bob, but he was gone. Dad had taken him to live on a ranch, and I never saw Bob again. We had no money for film that year, so no pictures of Bob exist. But even now, I can lie in my bed on an early morning whe n the wind howls through the trees, turn my head on the pillow, and in my mind see two tuf ted ears above a pair of golden eyes peeping mysteriously over the edge of the mattress.