Return of the Night Owl

It was a truly a "dark and stormy night" when the tabby cat showed up. A neighbor had knocked on my door, asking if I knew who it belonged to. I had never seen it before. As we stood in the driveway, the poor, wet creature kept lifting its paws one by one, trying to protect them from the freezing rain. After chatting for a bit, the neighbor left the cat and me to fend for ourselves.

I already had three cats, all of them rescues, and I could not take in any more. But I couldn't just abandon the tabby, as my neighbor had done.

"I'll let it sleep in the mudroom for tonight," I thought. "Then it can find it's way home tomorrow."

Sadly, my plan failed.

My tuxedo tomcat Max went ballistic the moment I let the tabby inside. He could smell and/or sense the strange cat's presence, even with the door between the kitchen and mudroom shut tight. He hissed and hurled himself against the door, and frightened the tabby back outside.

I quickly came up with Plan B. I unearthed a sturdy, square, cardboard box from the storage room, and made it into a temporary shelter. I lined it with a stack of old newspapers for warmth, and placed it outside the back door, along with some food and water. The grateful tabby promptly made itself comfortable, purring with gratitude.

The tabby was gone the next morning when I left for work.

"He probably just wandered too far from home, and got caught in the storm," I thought to myself, relieved he was no longer my responsibility.

There were lots of cats and dogs in the neighborhood, and some owners let their dogs off leash on walks and allowed their cats to roam free. Personally, I didn't agree with these policies. Although the neighborhood was safe and quiet with a large park in the centre, it was bordered by busy roads a few streets away, and open fields and forest on one side.

Deer , rabbits and other wildlife were a common sight. I had once seen a huge buck in my back yard, illuminated by the moonlight and street lights.

In the winter, my yard was always covered by a patchwork of intersecting rabbit tracks, left behind by the four, huge jackrabbits that slept under the park benches or next to my shed.

I was surprised to see the tabby race out of the cardboard box shelter one evening when I arrived home. I hoped he had just been using it as a warming hut, and wasn't living in it full time. The box was looking rather the worse for wear.

I didn't see the tabby again until weeks later. I had heard a cat meowing late one night, and found him sitting on my front step, directly in front of the door.

I put some food and water out for him. He quickly ate and drank and then melted away in the darkness. I kept putting food and water out every evening after that, and it was always gone the next morning. It eased by conscience slightly to know the tabby wasn't going hungry, even if he was homeless. There were plenty of mice and other small rodents around for him to feast on, too, if he was so inclined.

This unspoken arrangement continued for years. The tabby never approached me again, but I put food and water out for him every night. I rarely caught a glimpse of him, but if another creature of the night - a raccoon, skunk or stray - ate his food, he would meow piteously until I refilled the bowls.

A friend across the street sometimes reported on his activities. She had often noticed him in my yard, and had spotted him climbing in and out of a treehouse a few doors down.

The tabby and I lived separate lives, but I still wondered where he had come from, and how he managed to survive our frigid winters.

Other cats came and went, making their rounds through the neighborhood. Pumpkin, a friendly ginger who lived in the house around the corner, always came by to say hello when I was working outside. And I was bewitched by the sight of a beautiful white kitten, that I saw chasing moths attracted by the porch lights one magical summer's night.

A black crow I named Russell liked to sit on the telephone wire and peek in at me through the kitchen window. A chatty squirrel claimed ownership of the shed, surveying their kingdom from their perch on the roof.

Jays, chickadees and sparrows made frequent use of the birdbath in my flowerbed, and wonderpeckers tested out the giant,twisty pine tree that shielded the front of the house.

One fall evening, I heard the signature who...who...call of an owl, that seemed to come from a stand of trees in the park. At first, I thought it was kids playing a prank. But I heard the distinctive sound many times after that, although I never actually saw the owl. I wondered if it was the same one I had seen in the trees near my mother's home, several blocks away.

It was a blustery January night when I heard the strange, sighing sound outside my door. I couldn't see anything from the window, and it was too dark and late to venture outside to investigate. It made me uneasy, and I fell into had a restless sleep.

The next morning, I was stricken to see a tabby cat lying motionless in the snow, mere inches from the doorstep. He was on his stomach with his back to me, so I couldn't see his face. But his brown striped fur was familiar. I dressed hurriedly and rushed outside. The cat didn't move when I approached, calling "Puss, puss, puss". I couldn't bear to touch it.

Thankfully, a man across the street was outside shovelling. We had exchanged a few words in the past, but I didn't even know his name. Someone had told be he was a retired cop, and he preferred to keep a low profile.

I walked over to his house.

"Can you help me, please?" I asked. "I think there is a dead animal by my steps and I'm afraid to touch it." He followed me without a word. The look on my face must have said it all.

I stayed in the driveway while he leaned over the animal for a closer look, then reeled back in horror.

"It's dead all right," he said. "Do you have a trash bag handy?"

I brought him a bag and a shovel, and he quickly scooped up the remains, carefully spreading the snow over the spot where the body had been.

"I think an owl got it", he said. "There weren't any track marks or paw prints around." He took the bag back home with him to dispose of the contents.

I was shocked and saddened by tabby friend's sudden demise, and filled with remorse that I hadn't done more for him.

Had anyone ever scratched behind his velvet ears or under his chin, whispering sweet nothings; telling him he was a good boy and a pretty kitty?

How had he managed for so long, living his lonely, hardscrabble life? I wept for him, my nameless tabby.

I still think of him, even now, so many years later. My own brown tabby boy is spoiled and beloved in ways he never was, my creature of the night. I hope he is at rest, if his nine lives have ended, or has a happy home, if he is still here.

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