Most of the time, we try to teach our animals. But if we are truly wise, we allow animals to teach us. That’s what happened to me nearly 10 years ago when a stray cat stumbled on our back deck.
It was a cold, rainy March night. A stray cat limped to our sliding glass door and screeched like a banshee. She was the filthiest, skinniest, feline I ever laid eyes on.
She also had the worst meow ever.
I wasn’t about to let this homeless animal in my house. I already had a dog and two cats. My cats didn’t even get along with each other.
I knew this bag of bones wasn’t going to live long. So I left food, milk and a couple towels in a greenhouse attached to the back of our house. That way, the cat could at least die out of the rain.
The cat dragged herself into the greenhouse, ate all the food, drank the milk and collapsed on the towels.
The next day, the cat was still alive. Even a bit perky. But still screeching.
I rubbed some flea medicine on her back and watched in horror as the tiny insects swarmed out of her fur.
Just what we need, I thought. A flea-bitten feline.
“Mom, what are you going to do with that tramp-cat?” my son Tim asked.
“Find the owner,” I said. But we instantly began to call herTramp, which eventually evolved into Trampy.
I searched for the owner to no avail. I called animal shelters and surveyed neighbors, asking people if they had lost a cat. There were no takers.
After a week, I took Trampy to the vet. She was still dirty. My then-vet, Joanne Geil, was an expert in elderly cats.
She examined Trampy, turned to me, and said, “She’s about 16, riddled with arthritis, has feline leukemia, kitty flu and is the proud owner of a total of three teeth.”
I rolled my eyes. “Here, shave the mats out of her fur while I get a few shots,” Joanne said, handing me an electric razor. When I began to shave spots on Tramp’s fur she growled, and tried to bite me, but with so few teeth she only managed to gum my hand. I laughed, and soon brought her home to the greenhouse again. Spring was getting warm and it had become a far more comfortable shelter.
The next morning, Trampy waited for me, totally transformed. Joanne’s medicine had made her feel better. She had cleaned herself from the bottom of her paws to the top of her head, revealing a black, brown and white calico cat with spotless, fluffy fur and shining green eyes.
She was beautiful. And her meow had become normal. She had screamed at our back door because she just felt terrible. She was asking - begging - for help. From me.
I gave in.
Our cat Bobbie was enraged at this intruder, even though Trampy stayed outside and out of her way. Bobbie hissed at her every time she walked by the greenhouse.
“I hate you!” Bobbie would hiss. Trampy would have none of it. “Well, I hate you right back!” she would hiss in reply. Bobbie would stomp off in a huff. Kiko, our other resident cat, made it clear that she didn’t give a damn about either of them.
As the days became warm, Trampy slept under bushes in our yard and spent long, contented afternoons in the sun, watching butterflies and bees.
We built our barn that year, and I moved Trampy into my office on the second floor. I got a little bed for her, put a heating pad underneath for her arthritis and kept the wood stove going when it got cold.
She became my barn cat and writing buddy. When I wrote, she would sit by my chair and mew until I picked her up and put her bed on my desk, where she would curl up and watch me write, purring loudly, telling me how to spell the big words. Sometimes we would walk outside on the second floor deck, Trampy gazing over the fields as I held her.
But she was old for a cat, and obviously had a rough life spent mostly outside. I braced myself that one day she would probably pass away in her sleep.
I only wish that happened.
One day, when she walked outside, a fox or coyote tried to grab her. But Trampy had gotten very strong and fought off the animal. By the time I found her, she had two broken arms and a gash on her head. But whatever attacked her had run away; Trampy might have been old, but she was not an easy kill.
I raced to Joanne’s office and she assured me that Trampy could be saved, putting her arms in little casts and stitching up the gash. But Trampy was 17 by then and couldn’t survive the shock of the attack. After a few days, she died. I buried her in a garden next to the barn and marked it with a heart-shaped rock I found on our property.
I miss my friend. I keep her picture above my desk. Trampy taught me to listen better. She taught me that compassion is always the best way and its rewards are endless. Finally, she taught me not to judge a book by its cover, even if, by all appearances, it is dirty, matted, and very, very loud.
Our family has three stray cats (so far). We have the cat my daughter found on the lacrosse field as a kitten, she has the three-legged cat that was found in a shed and the kitten she found while on the job (long story). They are the sweetest buddies, we’re so lucky to have them.
This is such a sweet reminder of how these 4-legged furry family members teach us about unconditional love.