I realized in the middle of the funeral that I was still wearing my leather work gloves. I considered taking them off out of respect, but decided to leave them on: the cat and I had a working relationship anyway.
You don't have to go all the way to Idaho to find a farm like the one I grew up on--that's part of what I like about Tallahassee. It wasn't a real farm by farm standards, but it was a farm by city standards. We had cattle and hogs and sometimes chickens, a horse for a short while, sheep one summer, and always cats and dogs. People from town, either out of laziness or some misguided sense of what it is to be humane, dropped off domesticated animals "in the country" (we were only five minutes from the edge of town) when they were finished with them.
We had a complex relationship with our animals. Some people, then and now, shout objections to raising animals for slaughter. On our place at least, the animals were treated well, even through their final moments. No human being ate dinner until the animals were fed and otherwise cared for. Our entire schedules were built around the animals' needs. We fed the babies with bottles when necessary, took animals of all sizes to the vet, administered medicines, delivered babies. I was always pleased at how a days-old calf, with its legs folded under itself, fit perfectly across my chest, head resting in the cradle created by my bicep and deltoid, butt hanging over the same place on the other arm.
At the same time, no animal was ever allowed in the house. No matter how cold. Animals are smart, and, more important, built tough. They found shelter from wind and rain and snow and worse, and they were just fine. The house was for the people and the people alone.
Eventually, they all came to the same end. Even as a child I understood this. Every beast--whether loved or hated or simply tended, pet or pest or product--came to the same end. Sparky the little mutt was hit by a car and got a burial service--the first of many. The wild dogs that chased the cattle were shot. Pigs and chickens were slaughtered at home; the cattle usually were trucked elsewhere. One calf literally died in my arms as I was trying to get him to the vet. I watched a cow slaughtered and carved up, plucked many a still-twitching headless chicken, and assisted in converting many a hog to ham. And yes, sometimes we put down animals in poor health, including our horse. I hunted deer and game birds. I hauled dead animals to the landfill. None of it really bothered me--it was just the way it was.
Tiger the family cat broke all those rules. I didn't want a cat. I don't really even like cats. But his owner promised that he was a good hunter, and I had a mole problem. Similarly, I had a family problem: Jennifer and the kids all wanted him. Tiger came home with us.
How it irked me, having an ANIMAL in the HOUSE! On the couch, on the bed, coming in, going out, coming in again. But I came to appreciate that Tiger wasn't just any cat. He had no disillusions about owning the place, no feline sense of entitlement, no haughty attitude. He didn't even insist on being underfoot until you gave him what he was after. He just wanted a soft place to rest and some food that he didn't have to chase. And that cat brought me at least a mole a week.
I knew he was sick when he rubbed up against my shins, looking for attention. He hadn't even begun losing weight yet, but he'd never acted like that. By that point I loved him too, and was actually glad for the chance to rub and scratch him. Two weeks later I was digging a hole in the back yard, my leather gloves saving my once-tough hands from blisters--I've become a genuine pansy. Choking out for my children an explanation of sickness and death, I found that everything I learned on the farm seemed just as distant as Idaho herself.
Jennifer and the kids seem just fine now, and I'm glad for them. We don't have to buy cat food, and the mole population hasn't recovered yet. I just wish I could quit expecting Tiger to dart past me every morning when I open the door to leave for work.
