Yesterday, I wrote a post called “Pussy Cats” about a strange cat intruding into our barn. For those of you loyal readers who have been waiting with bated breath concerning the effect on our resident barn cats, you are free to unbate your respective breaths, for I will now tell you a harrowing story of bravery and redemption.
Those readers who missed Episode One need to catch up. I will help you.
Previously on Shootin’ the Breeze: A large yellow cat visited the barn. It was in the stall where we feed our barn cats and provide a warm bed, heated by an electric blanket. The yellow visitor was growling inside the stall. Our resident cats, Camo and Jigsy, were thwarted from entering because entering required going under the stall door, a dangerous route making them vulnerable to ambush. So they skedaddled up to the house to tattle to Miss Sugar.
After personal investigation, I reported on the situation to Miss Sugar, and was summarily sent back to the barn to protect our precious pussies. By then, the yellow cat was out of the stall, sitting on the stack of hay bales, still making noise. It was not still growling, as our pussy cats were no longer there. It was meowing in a whiny manner.
I petted it while wearing gloves. I planned to pick it up to put it in a pet carrier and remove it. When I changed my motion from petting it to reaching under it to pick it up, it tried to bite me. Actually, it did bite me, but the teeth did not penetrate the leather glove. Still, I felt a pinch and checked to see if skin was broken. It was not. I do not want rabies shots. I’m not drooling too bad yet.
The cat climbed to the top of the stack. I did not follow. I let it be. I warned it, “This ain’t over yet. I shall return. And you better not be here when I do unless you want more trouble than you can handle.” It listened to what I said. “Don’t make me tell you again,” I added. “Around these parts, folks call me King of the Wild Frontier.” That gave him something to think about.
I returned to the house and found Sugar leafing through my life insurance policy. She told me that being attacked by a rabid cat might qualify for double indemnity, you know, as an accidental death. She was reading the fine print, making plans.
In the morning, when I did the chores, fighting through the fever and hallucinations, I could not find the yellow cat. I like to think that my loyal buddies, Camo and Jigsy, drove away the yellow cat, probably as revenge for its attack on me. They might have laid down the law — saying perhaps, “This barn ain’t big enough for the three of us. Git off of this ranch or else.” And the yeller coward left. (Or it might have left due to the stern talking to it received from King of the Wild Frontier).
I think I will be all right. My damaged finger did not swell up. Sugar put the insurance policy back in the drawer. She should have known that I’m too tough for some wild beast to take down. Maybe our barn cats are not pussies either.