The Lively And Robust Farm Cat

When I was growing up we had farm cats. Cats are a necessity on a farm since they patrol the premises for mice and snakes. They are also the most rugged and self-reliant animal I know. And since most farm cats have never seen a veterinarian, it’s survival of the fittest. And survive they do.

We moved to the farm when I was nine. We had no idea that when we obtained the farm that we also obtained half a dozen or so cats who laid claim to the place. We had barn cats, field cats and one or two house cats.

Twice a day the mousers collected to watch Mama milk the cows in anticipation of a feast of fresh, warm milk. They would sit around the barn at milking time with one eye on the cow and the other eye on the milker. Mama always poured some milk into a pan for the hungry cats.

When my brother did the milking, he would squirt it at a cat and she would open her mouth and catch the stream in mid air. Most of the time however, she got splattered on the face.

When the litters began to arrive, the farm’s cat population escalated. The barn kittens were born in the hay loft, and it wasn’t long before they learned that a pan of warm milk was set out after the cows were milked. This is the one thing that kept them from going wild or ferrel.

At weaning time the mother cat killed a fat rat or mouse and dropped it in front of her kittens. They attacked it with vigor, and usually one of the litter claimed it as his, and set up a fierce growling and hissing. Woe to the littermate who attempted to share this prize.

There was one big black and white female who was obviously the mother to the adolescents. She was pregnant and came near the house as if asking for a meal, but never came near enough to eat.

One day she appeared quite thin and I knew her kittens had been born. I tried following her to discover her secret den, but she successfully eluded me in the corn field. A few days later she led me to an abandoned chicken coop where I found the litter crawling over broken glass. The next day the kittens were gone. The black and white mother had moved her young to more private quarters.

The whereabouts of this litter of kittens worried me all summer. The barn kittens were growing fat and sassy, and the field kittens were no where to be found. Then, one afternoon as I picked blackberries, I saw the old black and white cat slip into the blackberry patch. I dropped my bucket of berries and fell to my hands and knees.

Crawling through thorns and biers I could hear the mewing of kittens. My heart leaped inside my chest. I had discovered their sanctuary.

I crawled all the way to the back of the patch and backed out on hands and knees. Each time I crawled in, I retrieved a kitten. Soon the entire litter was safe in the tool shed behind the house, and the mother cat never moved them again. I played more with this litter than I did with the barn kittens, maybe because they were nearer the house. At weaning time I watched the dead rat routine as the largest kitten made his claim.

We also had house cats on the farm. These were not house cats as we know them today because they never came into the house. As far as I know, this was before commercial kitty litter, and before keeping a cat in the house became popular. Having a house cat simply meant having a pet that hung around the house.

And why wouldn’t it? All the table scraps were set outside twice a day in a bowl kept on the back porch for this purpose. It even attracted the neighbor's cats.

When our house cat had kittens that year I lived on the farm, she went under the house and there was no way I could determine the number of kittens or the colors. Even as a nine-year old I had no patience, and my curiosity was beyond control. Every time I heard those kittens cry from under the house I tried to get a peek. I would lay on my stomach and peer into the darkness of that space, but not so much as a glowing eye was visible.

When the kittens grew large enough to walk around and venture out on their own, I discovered that if I went down into the root cellar they would come almost--not quite-- near enough for me to reach.

And then one day I did reach one. I was so excited you would have thought I had never seen a kitten before. This was the most beautiful litter of all the farm cats. It was also the first time I had ever seen a dilute calico, and I didn’t even know what it was.

All the kittens found homes with nearby neighbors and relatives. By fall the farm settled down in preparation for winter; the baby cats were gone and the mothers put on thick winter coats. We’ve long since moved away, but I can’t help remembering those robust farm cats of the summer of my ninth year.