It’s not that we don’t like cats because we most assuredly do. In our early years of marriage, Tom and I had a number of cats. More often than not they were strays that wandered into our life. You have to understand that life in the late '60s in small town USA was somewhat primitive. There were no leash laws, no barking laws, no clean-up-after-your-pet laws and cats were at the bottom of the pecking order.
I would go so far as to say in certain circles a driver who saw a cat on the road may, on a bad day or even on a whim, swerved toward that cat rather than away. I suppose that in small town USA there may have been a pampered cat or two, but it was far more likely to see a skinny cat fearfully scampering about struggling to find food and a safe place to sleep.
It happens that we had an old dilapidated garage on our property that a stray cat would, on occasion, wander into to take refuge. Invariably it was terribly thin, very fearful or at least very shy with cloudy, lackluster eyes and a mangy looking coat. Upon seeing this somewhat pathetic creature, I would haul out an old bowl or two and begin its rehabilitation. It took a surprisingly short time for the cat to warm up to us with a meow or two of greeting and even some purring.
Eventually this cat and others like it entered our home and hearts and blossomed. Coats became shiny, and without the stress of finding their next meal, the felines became playful and affectionate. The first one we called Sweetie Pie and another one was named Hunnie Bunch and so on.
But, alas, anyone who has owned a cat that has started its life on the streets understands that these cats really want to spend some of their time outside. And outside is not a safe place to be — especially in the late 1960s in small town USA.
So the cats that were transformed into healthy, gentle-natured pets eventually disappeared. We moved out of our small town in the early '70s, but I remember fondly that time of our young marriage and the sweet felines who shared it with us.
We later went on to seek out and adopt a few more cats. But then came D-O-G. He was a good-natured, gentle little Shih Tzu. We called him Harry because he was. Then came McDuff or Duffy or the Dufster. Duffy was a stubborn, opinionated Scottish terrier. He was dour at times, didn’t have a single toy because he did not believe in playing. He hated squirrels or any critter that intruded in his space. He did, however, love to take walks. We often went to the park, but when we walked in town he was on an extendable leash.
Looking back, I am surprised he didn’t dislocate my shoulder as every time he saw a squirrel, and you know they are far from scarce, he lunged for all he was worth. He didn’t like rabbits either. One lovely morning we passed within reach of a bunny nest with three adorable babies. In an instant he sprang and killed all three. He must have had some desirable traits, although at the moment they escape me. I could tell stories of his adventures but that is for another time.
THE STORY OF CHARLIE
Now, gentle reader, this story is about our cat, Charlie, so let me tell you how Charlie came into our life.
One crisp fall morning, Tom and I were sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee when a little, orange furball caught our eye. We had to check this out. The kitten looked healthy and was cautious but not fearful. It had a beautiful coat and clear eyes, not like the ones who had come to us in small town USA. Once again, I went into the house and brought out bowls as I had done so many years ago. One bowl had water and one had Chicken of the Sea tuna. Years later when talking to a neighbor, we learned that she too had seen this little, orange furball and had offered it a bowl of milk. This kitten preferred tuna.
Days went by and the tabby stayed. He slept on a wood pile in the garage. I added a blanket. He purred a lot. I mean a whole lot. We tried to find him a home. The animal shelter was full and couldn't accept any more cats. Tom asked his students (he was a teacher at McLeod West) if any of them would like a nice young and healthy kitten. Could any farm use a mouser? No one wanted him, so he stayed in our garage.
As you may have suspected by now, we were getting attached to the little guy. Why didn’t we just bring him into the house you ask? Remember back to Duffy and those baby rabbits? So it was decided that we would slowly introduce the two. Well, Duffy did prove himself a gentleman and little tabby was anointed the name Charlie and moved into our home.
HE WAS THE PERFECT CAT
Many of our friends are cat people and they all concurred he was the perfect cat. He became notorious for his purring, from his first visit to the vet when she couldn’t listen to his heartbeat because he wouldn't stop purring, to all the times he would jump up on someone’s lap and charm them with his affectionate rumble.
In nice weather, he would join me outdoors. If I was weeding, planting, watering or just puttering he would gallop over to me to observe my actions and keep me company. When we had moved into our home, Tom and our son, Adam, had erected a six-foot privacy fence with a ledge. The squirrels and birds often perched on the ledge and so did Charlie.
Charlie loved life. Charlie loved all seasons but he really loved Christmas. He pounced on the garland, batted at the ornaments, jumped into and inspected each and every new box brought up from the basement. The final installment at our house was to put up the Christmas tree and he loved that best. The tree was placed in a corner by a heat duct with a big white, soft, fluffy tree skirt below it. It never took long for Charlie to curl up under the branches and take a nap. And that was where you would find him, more often than not, during the holidays — snuggling under the Christmas tree.
Now Charlie was not fond of large gatherings or crowds. If the visitors numbered only a few and were not too rowdy, he would often select a lap to curl up on. But if the gathering was large he would most likely disappear, which is why on a Thanksgiving evening after our company had left, I was not too surprised that he was nowhere to be found. Normally if he was not in the house when we went to bed, he would return through the doggie doors sometime during the night.
I expected to see him the following morning and was quite concerned when he had not returned. My concern was well founded as the weather was getting colder. I mean really cold. Polar vortex was the term the weathermen were using. Snow, blowing snow, life-threatening wind chills, make-sure-you-have-survival-gear-in-your-car kind of cold.
WHERE IS CHARLIE?
Day 2 ended and no Charlie. We called the police station, the animal shelter. No one had seen Charlie. I drove around the neighborhood hoping that I would not find his lifeless body on the road. I didn’t.
Day 3 saw a high temperature of 5 degrees above zero and a wind chill temperature of 15 degrees below zero and the 4 inches of snow that had fallen were blowing and drifting. I put on my warmest coat and walked through the backyards calling for him and listening for his answering meows that I hoped might come from the many sheds in the neighborhood. I heard nothing but the crunching sounds of my feet in the snow.
We put an ad on the local radio station: "Lost orange tabby answers to the name of Charlie." We got a call but when we went to the farm, the cat was not Charlie.
A week went by. The coldest week Minnesota had seen in many years. I cried, dear reader, and I do not do that often. All I could think of was how much Charlie could be suffering in this terrible cold. My heart literally ached for him.
Another week went by and I slowly resigned myself to the fact that Charlie must have died by now. No house pet could survive this brutal weather and I comforted myself with the thought that at least his horrible freezing ordeal was over. I gave away his cat food and packed up his bowls and decided I better get used to a cold lap without a purring cat. And life went on at the Ginkel household.
Hanging the Christmas decorations that year was bittersweet. Especially putting up the tree. Where was my orange tabby that was supposed to napping there?
Every time I looked at the Christmas tree with the white fluffy skirt underneath, I was reminded that Charlie was not there. I said to myself on many occasions, “I miss you, Charlie, and rest in peace.”
A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE
A few more days passed and Christmas was fast approaching. I was in the basement reading a book when Tom yelled in an urgent tone, “Lauri, you better get up here.” I ran upstairs with a racing heart, fearful of what I might find. There in the living room stood Tom holding Charlie. He put him down and Charlie raced over to me meowing fervently. I picked him up and he was alarmingly thin and something was seriously wrong with his tail. He was just fur and bones but he had returned. Can you imagine his relief at being warm and in his house again? It’s as if his plaintiff meows were trying to tell us of his ordeal.
His tail had been injured and over half of it had to be amputated, thus the title of the story.
Over the next few days I fed him every few hours, a little at a time and he began filling out and getting stronger just as the stray cats had done so many years earlier in small town USA.
What had happened to him? We will never know but we speculate that he was trapped somewhere. Perhaps he was in someone’s garage when the door closed and they left on a winter vacation.
The amazing part of this story is how this starving, weak cat, very near death, found the will and the strength to get home. How did he manage to jump onto and over that 6-foot fence, climb the back steps and push through the dog doors? I guess he knew life would be good again if he could just make it back to the fluffy, white tree skirt under the Christmas tree.
His tail had been injured and over half of it had to be amputated thus the title of the story.
