When I look out my front room window, I sometimes see a cat go strolling past. Or sometimes one will venture over to the porch and have a nap in a chair. I have been owned by a few cats in my day. When I say “owned”, I mean that’s the way the cat seemed to look at it. They allowed me the privilege of keeping their food bowl and water bowl full, of being sure that they had sufficient medical coverage and, of course, a warm place in winter and a cool place in summer. Not much, in a cat’s way of looking at it, for the honor of their presence.
The cat who springs to mind as I think of those who have strolled through my life, is an ordinary looking gray cat my son named D. C. (Darn Cat). He brought her home when he was 12 years old and she was our cat until she died 14 years later. D. C. was not a beautiful cat and her ancestry was a bit sketchy. A tiny bit of yellow was mixed in with the gray. Her feet were white. She was almost a silent cat. She made her wishes known by simply looking at us. D. C. would come to our glass storm door, look in and give a silent meow. By that, I knew I needed to check her feed or water bowls. She was aloof and regal. Sometimes she allowed us the privilege of holding her on our laps. Then she would close her eyes, knead her claws in and out, evidently in perfect bliss, and take a nap.
D. C. did not like other cats. She did not want to be their buddy or confidant or protector. What she wanted was to jump in the middle of them and chase them away. Once I brought home a beautiful little Manx named Rinehart. He quickly learned to stay out of the way of the imperial D. C. I have never seen such a look of pure loathing on the face of anyone, animal or human, as D. C. gave the poor, hapless Rinehart. She lowered her ears to half staff so that they stuck out to each side of her head and she half closed her eyes. The half that was visible was a glowing yellow; baleful, mean, threatening, and downright bad. Rinehart learned to step lightly around D. C.
D. C. under clothesline
She liked Lady, my son’s dog and she tolerated Beauty, another of our dogs. She was a loner. She thought her own thoughts, communicated in her own way, was never sick, and ruled Manos Meadows with the force of her personality. She was, as I said, a very quiet cat and I didn’t know I would miss her so much when she left us. But I buried her during an Oklahoma thunderstorm, lightning flashing, thunder crashing, and I was out in it, foolishly digging a grave under the big oak, the burying tree, where a rooster, a guinea pig, and several other of Matt’s pets lay. She did what a beloved pet does; brought us joy when she was with us and left us with an ache in our hearts when she went. Oh, and a lot of warm and pleasant memories of a small gray cat my son called D. C.
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