Actually, we have two cats, one inside and one outside. The inside cat is Cosmo and he's with now for about 13 years, a shelter cat who was probably about two when my wife and daughter adopted him. He's an orange tabby who we're convinced thinks he's a dog. He's surely not as frisky now, but he does go out, circles the property, and usually returns fairly quickly. He stays out longer in nice weather, and makes no overtures to go out when it's lousy, or cold out. He's certainly part of the family, and drifts toward his bowl of food when we sit down to eat dinner. It seems he likes to eat when we do.
The other cat is Socks, a female tuxedo tabby who was scrounging so vigorously for food in November 2017 that I took pity on her and started to feed her outdoors. At the time there were LOST CAT posters on the lamp posts at the park down the block that "Reuben" was missing. There was of course a photo. Reuben looked a lot like this hungry bugger. So I fed him. (I assumed male, which later turned out incorrect.)
I called the number on the poster, and told the woman that Reuben was found. She asked some questions about more distinguishing features, said she's been getting a lot of calls, but no, that's not Reuben. Thank you very much. Shit.
Tuxedo tabby was not going away when I informed her the news that no, she's not Reuben and quit bothering us. She's not even male. Turns out the tuxedo tabby is a female, but thankfully neutered, because in the 3+ years we've been feeding her, she has not become pregnant, despite spending her life outdoors.
I fed her two times a day as she came around. She hissed at me vigorously, bared her tiny teeth, and resisted all efforts to pet her. I talked to her about her bad manners and the hand that feeds you, but she certainly didn't turn down the food, and I didn't stop feeding her, despite the aggressive reception.
Food has done her well. She has a shiny coat, gained significant weight to the point that she looks pregnant, but isn't. Over the years she has dropped the hissing attitude, allows you to pet her, and comes inside the vestibule to eat. She purrs like a motor boat these days.
We haven't given her entre to the house. She doesn't seem to want to explore past the kitchen, but heads for Cosmos's food. This is a no-no. We hustle her back to the vestibule.
So, she's been living "rough" as they say, but never straying too far from the front door, back door and the food and treats she knows she's going to get.
Cats are predators, and female cats are more predatory than males. Over the years there have been dead birds found by the front door and the back door. Feathers have been found under the picnic table tarp.
Once she was caught enjoying a rabbit she had killed. We chased her. These aren't everyday conquests, but hey do occur. Nature.
The latest was on Wednesday when I went to the store, left the storm door ajar a bit to allow her to eat her food in the vestibule and leave. Normal operating procedure.
On my way out I doubled back and dumped the NYT and the WSJ that had been delivered in the vestibule. I had taken the papers out of the plastic wrappers and started to read them. The NYT was on top.
On the return, the vestibule was quite a sight. Feathers everywhere. Looked like a pillow fight with broken seams. But best of all was the dead bird left on top of the NYT. Jesus.
The guess is that the bird for some reason flew into the vestibule and was met by the enemy. It wasn't pretty.
A dead bird on top of the NYT left me believing a message was being delivered. Like fish in a newspaper telling me Luca Brasi was sleeping with them.
Of course this wasn't the case. I have no ties to organized crimes, and haven't spotted any wanted Willie Suttons on the subway and gone looking for the reward.
I did think my wife should come downstairs and see this carnage. A dead bird on top of the newspaper she loves to call "that pinko Commie rag" was worth a picture. The phrase is from growing up in the Bronx with her father, an Irish immigrant who was an IRT subway motorman who revered the Transport Workers Union, but who despised the NYT.
He wasn't alone. Many people of that era considered the NYT a Bolshevik rag. One of my good friends tells the story of his Jewish father LIVID that an elementary school teacher in Manhattan was instructing his son to read the NYT for current events and cut out a story and talk about it. They were a Herald Tribune, New York Post household and wouldn't even consider wrapping fish in the NYT. The teacher was confronted.
There was nothing I could do about the dead bird. Looked like a mocking bird. They hate cats, and cats hate them. And one of them made a very wrong turn.
My sense of proof that my wife now had proof that even the cat hates the NYT as much as she does was sending me for the camera. I don't get off on pictures of dead birds, but this one was too symbolic to ignore.
Sending my wife downstairs to view the cat's opinion on top of page one she returned and asked, "is there supposed to be a bird there somewhere?"
"Huh? There's no bird?" "No bird." And of course there wasn't. The bird had been carted off, we guess by the cat, and taken outdoors—where, I never found out, despite thinking it would be easy to track because of the snow. Nope.
There were of course feathers everywhere. Hard to vacuum up because they kept floating away, but I got most of them picked up.
Socks, why couldn't you have been Reuben?
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