As a child, I loved cats.
However, the title of “Tammy’s Favourite Cat” was dubious because they all died. Natural causes. Alright, semi-natural.
My history with cats is traumatic – and a tad gory. Feline lovers, you may require tissue.
I grew up on a dairy farm in the hamlet of Geysir outside Arborg, Manitoba. Hamlet sounds so quaint.
Our farm was overloaded with cats. In the evening when all 70 to 80 meowed at once – it was Alfred Hitchcock-like. A main contributor to the feline population was Puffballs, a tabby tomcat who visited every winter. Then he’d ship off, and lo and behold, the following spring would bring baskets of kittens! Most resembling Puffballs. Luckily, we had a large barn.
Like a beehive has its Queen Bee, we had a monarch cat: Lucky. A sleek and sophisticated tabby with her own sleeping area and milk bowl. When Lucky birthed kittens, a hush fell throughout the farm. Lucky’s kittens were coddled – and the first-born was held up by a mandrill … wait, that was The Lion King.
Lucky birthed my first favourite kitten, Rainbow, who was brown with orange dots. We kept Lucky’s kittens in a silicone castle with padded carpet. So, an extra large red plastic crate with straw. One day, I couldn’t find Rainbow. Until I dug into the straw. What kitten dies when they’re barely a month old? The start of the curse.
I moved onto Gizmo, who looked similar to Rainbow.
*Graphic Content Ahead*
Continue reading “My Tragic Childhood Cat Tales, The Legend is True”
Tammy W. Karatchuk 