Feral

     When the group of us moved up to Red Rocks, the 240-acre parcel we bought in the Rocky Mountains, Pat brought her two cats. One was black and called "Wharf Rat," and the other was a plump Siamese I called "Pearly." Poor Pearly didn't last long in the country. We were bordered on three sides by National Forest, and Johnny Bucci, the old rancher who sold us the acreage, said the cat was probably mistaken for a rabbit by an owl one night. Pearly was a cuddler, slow to anger and slow to move. It was too easy to picture an owl getting him.

     Wharf Rat, "the Rat," made himself at home wherever he was. He liked people just fine, but was a curious cat and explored the outdoors a lot. He had sleek, short black hair and was spotted hunting once in a while. One night he put a dead mouse in one of Pat's cowboy boots and she put the boot on in the morning, then took it off, thinking there was a sock inside. We all heard about that mouse in detail.

     As we busied ourselves building temporary shelters, then a "practice" 20-foot dome and, finally, the 60-foot dome, Pat said she hadn't seen the Rat in quite some time. We looked around and called him, but there was no sign of him. Pat decided he met a fate similar to Pearly's and we moved on. By then we had chickens, pigs, goats, domestic rabbits and a horse to take care of, besides ourselves. We kept busy and made sure to party too, whenever we could. The Rat was almost forgotten.

     But Larry spied him one sunny summer afternoon, sauntering toward the big dome. I watched when Larry picked him up. The Rat looked like a miniature panther, his muscles were so buff and well-defined. His coat was shiny and he seemed glad to see Larry.

     When we looked closer, we saw a wound on his head. He looked like he'd been bitten by a rattlesnake, and Larry was fast to put him in one of the trucks and take him miles away to a veterinarian. The vet saved his life with anti-venom, and the cat stayed around the dome for a short while before he disappeared again.

     We'd taken to calling him The Panther instead of The Rat, and everyone thought he left to resume a successful feral life in the country. In the meantime, life happened around and in the big dome and, gradually, people moved into smaller houses. We contented ourselves with being more like neighbors and a little less on top of each other. It was good.

     One day, outside the tepee I lived in while building a place, I heard Nancy call out.

     "Look! It's the Panther! Hey, Rat! Hey, kitty!"

     I joined her in the small garden by her house. It was the Panther. He looked even healthier than before, and deigned to let us pet him before he went into the trees again. We were still watching after him when he reappeared, this time with a half-grown black kitten.

     He lead the new cat to Nancy. She picked the kitten up and said, "He brought us a new cat! Will you just look at this!"

     The kitten purred loudly in her arms, and the Panther left again.

     That's how his story ended, as I knew it. Nancy kept the kitten and assumed the Panther was its father. We speculated on a possible cat colony somewhere in the woods, but never saw verification. I think of that Panther cat sometimes, one of the most beautiful and smart cats I've ever seen. It sounds like a fairy tale or something, but it's how one domestic cat changed and took charge of his life and offspring.

Author's Note

Constructive suggestions, please. Did you find this interesting? Does it seem incomplete?