Murphey's Lore - Old Favorites

The boy had pushed ahead of us while I was trying to detach Charley from the candy display. Our check-out line was a long one, and I was about to object when the interloper turned to glare, using one hand from underneath a package to flip me the bird. It was a challenge that would have been met - loudly - a couple of months ago, but that was before I had been reminded that hostility (and our reaction to it), isn't always as simple as it seems.

It all began when I was handed a silver-grey ball of fluff, one afternoon in late July. The kitten had been dumped outside Morgantown Feed, a fact which was discovered as I stood talking to Judy Miller, the calm blonde who keeps the store - and many of the farms in the area - running smoothly. "There's your woman," she said, waiving in my direction, and suddenly I found myself in possession of yet another cat. My mouth opened to protest, but it closed again when I glanced down at the little guy. He was a pathetic sight: scrawny, flea-ridden, no bigger than my hand, with scrunched-up eyes that oozed yellow puss. "A boy," I reported, "about four weeks old, with what seems to be a nasty case of conjunctivitis. No, wait a moment," I peered at him more carefully, "there's a big bump on his head. His eyes are swollen shut." Indeed, on closer inspection, the kitten looked like Joe Louis after a hard bout in the ring.

"That's a bad head injury - he's lucky to be alive," Doc Brester confirmed, a little later. The vet's grim expression said it all. It was probably a man-made wound, the kind that's caused from trying to crush the cat's skull. I knew that Doc didn't think the animal would survive, but, as always, he was willing to fight - equipping me with antibiotics and instructions to keep the kitten as calm and comfortable as his concussion would allow.

"Lucky" - named in the hope that his good fortune would hold - was a fighter, too. He accepted the medicine and milk that I squirted into his mouth without so much as a meow and, by the second day of his stay, was stumbling around attempting to explore his new home. He even insisted on using a litter tray and never - despite his blindness - soiled his bedding, or the floor. We all fell in love with this tiny creature and began to hope that he would be saved by his enormous will to live.

On the third day, the swelling began to drain. At first it seemed like a good sign, but then Lucky started to wail: the hoarse cry of a baby in pain. At six o'clock that night, he climbed out of his box and used his tray for the last time, before staggering over and collapsing at my feet. He passed away in my arms, with one paw stretched out - as if still trying to hold death at bay.

When Judy called the following week to say that Lucky's littermates had now been dumped outside their door, I almost couldn't bear it. "There are only two left - twin boys - both healthy," she wheedled. "Rick's already taken four home. If he turns up with any more, his wife'll divorce him..."

The kittens were packed in a box when I arrived. I peeled back the flap to take a look at them. They were Lucky's brothers alright - same body shape and same long hair - but with none of their sibling's sweetness. These guys were old enough to understand cruelty and they hissed and spat at me from their corner, eyes blazing with as much hatred as they could muster. Food and water didn't improve their attitude and they attempted to lacerate my hand whenever I came near. I was disgusted - not with the kittens, but with myself.

We're not used to hostile animals on the farm. The abused and neglected that we've adopted before have always been anxious to demonstrate their gratitude and I suddenly realized that our fondness for them was partly predicated on their eagerness to please. The kittens made me feel like a Victorian lady recoiling from the starving child, because it was foul-mouthed and hadn't learned its place.
I wasn't certain that I'd be able to give these two wildcats the affection they would need.

"They're just scared," Doc Brester assured me when I took them in for their shots, and he reached past the flying claws and picked one of them up. The baby went limp in his hand and accepted the injection without a sound.

Since then, relations have improved. As I type this, "Tangles" lies curled up in my lap, while "Tough Guy" is scaling the bookshelves nearby. Four weeks of food, fresh air and unlimited affection have brought out the rest of Lucky's genes and the twins are now as loved, and as loving, as their brother once had been. They are also a living reminder that - when it comes to dealing with hissing and spitting humans - most hostility is born of fear...

"That'll be thirty-three dollars and seven cents." The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out some change. As he struggled outside with his boxes, I noticed something silver glinting on the floor. It was a set of keys. "Just hold on a minute," I said to the blank-faced girl and ran after him. "Excuse me!" I shouted and his shoulders braced, as he turned to face an unpleasant confrontation. "I'm sorry, but you dropped these." The boy's expression changed from angry to confused, and I smiled at him. "Have a nice day..."