Raining Cats

Raining Cats and…Cats

By Emily Cameron

The rain was pouring nonstop in buckets as it frequently did on those occasions when my father planned to take us camping for the weekend to our favorite spot in the North Georgia Mountains, Lake Conasauga. We fondly called our destination Lake “Kinda Soggy” during those rainy trips to the Chattahoochee National Forest. Daddy had loaded the seemingly two-ton canary-yellow fiberglass canoe on top of the matching 1968 Ford ‘Country Estate’ station wagon the night before since our camping routine included getting an early start in the morning. Not surprisingly, it had rained steadily all night.

The dark grey skies barely lightened at all as day broke. The weather barely dampened our excitement as we piled in the car, ready to start our adventure. The hump-back station wagon backed out of the driveway, windshield wipers slapping, and headed across town to the Gulf station to ‘fillerup.’ About three blocks from home, we approached a stop sign at the bottom of a hill. Before Daddy could make the right turn onto Emory Street, a smallish black paw stepped out onto the windshield, soon followed by second and third black paws which then turned into an inky streak that shot across the pale yellow hood. Our former passenger bounced into the flooded street and disappeared between houses and yards dripping in the steady morning showers.

After a moment of shocked silence, my sister and I cried, “Daddy! That was Brunoooo…! We can’t go off and leeeeave him – We have to take him back hooome!” Bruno was our pet black cat who apparently had been propelled from the dry safety of the flipped canoe into the chilly wet dawn.

My father assured us that Bruno would be ‘fine’ while we were gone, but we pleaded loudly with whiny tears. My mother said calmly, “Now, Ed….” He groaned, put the car in park, and jumped out in the rain in search of our lost pet.

I am amazed now – but I wasn’t then—when Daddy and the cat returned to the car, both soaked and looking mutually unhappy. Daddy was especially miffed after he discovered that his catch, in fact, was not Bruno. He had instead reluctantly rescued our neighbors’ black cat they had named ‘J.B. Stoner’ after a racist politician. We took J. B. back to his home and departed a second time on our camping trip.

This time we made it all six blocks to the Gulf station, still laughing about our unexpected stowaway. As the attendant was filling the tank, he didn’t bother washing the windshield since it was still raining. Daddy was circling the car, making one more check of the nylon ropes securing the canoe to the roof. My family of four then experienced group déjà vu as black paws appeared on the windshield again and another dark blur rocketed off the front of the car, dashed across the busy street, and vanished into the abundant landscape of one of the larger historic homes in town.

The utterly astonished look on the station attendant’s face was priceless. This spectacle was clearly a first in his career.

Immediately we were certain the escapee was Bruno. Daddy (always the Eagle Scout), seeing our faces pressed to the rain-covered car windows, knew what he had to do – again. After a second successful retrieval and return to our house, he checked under the canoe for any other feline passengers that might have taken overnight refuge from the rain. Needless to say, we thought Daddy was better than Marlin Perkins on a Wild Kingdom safari, having once again renewed his status as our hero.