Deadly Diamond

“Prowling his own quiet backyard or asleep by the fire, he is still only a whisker away from the wilds.”

––Jean Burden

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Do Civilized Cats Eat Rats?

Simon was late. It was two o’clock in the morning, and I paced across the screened porch, ears forward, alert to his approach. I caught a glimpse of Misty in my peripheral vision and pretended I didn’t see her.

When Simon finally appeared, I jumped through the slit in the screen and we were off, over the picket fence, across the front of the house and down the street to our meeting place. I knew Misty was following us at a discreet distance, ducking behind trees and shrubs. Every now and then, she stopped and looked around to get her bearings. Misty, an indoor cat her whole life had never expressed a desire to run free outside, yet there she was, trudging across manicured lawns, un-kept lawns, natural landscapes, and open areas. If it weren’t for Simon urging me on, I would have marched her back home to safety.

Misty was familiar with most of the nocturnal animals that lived in the area––owls, snapping and gopher turtles, mice, raccoons, armadillos and an occasional opossum––only from a distance. The opossum––on a collision course with her––didn’t “play dead” as I’d once told her they did, and I saw why. The mother opossum, carrying several babies on her back, bared all fifty of her teeth while making some very ugly sounds. Misty wisely gave her a wide berth with only a furtive sidelong glance.

Sounds and smells filled the night. I sensed more than saw something scurry in the tall grass in the open field. I was tempted to pounce on the rat, the primal urge stronger than I’d ever felt, and I wondered––eating a lizard was one thing––but a big rat? Do civilized cats eat rats? Truth is, there was a time when I couldn’t even eat a mouse.

The house where I was born had many cracks where tiny mice made their way inside, especially under the kitchen sink. Although, he had never found any, the man of the house was always concerned about the damage a large mouse could do. On the other hand, I saw the damage he did with his old-fashioned wood traps that tortured the adult mice to death, and the poison pellets that killed them slowly.

A week before I left this home, I was exploring my surroundings and wandered into the kitchen where I found two very small creatures huddled on the floor near the baseboard. I went to inspect and called attention to the weak and vulnerable tiny mice.

In one swoop, the woman of the house grabbed the stronger one first, then the weaker one who tried to make a pitiful getaway. She placed them in a shoebox with a washcloth for comfort, birdseed, and water. She hid the box in the furnace room out of harm’s way when she heard her husband come in. The tiny mice didn’t notice the food or didn’t know what it was, but they did seek warmth under the washcloth. I knew that they were still nursing and too young for solid food.

The woman came back later and tried to feed them milk, using her finger as a dropper. The weaker one didn’t respond. The other one turned on his back and took a drop, then went back under the washcloth. I understood there wasn’t anything I could do, other than let them know, they weren’t alone. The weaker mouse died during the night and the other one died the next day. The woman wrapped the mice together in a piece of cloth and buried them in the pet cemetery, under the bushes by the patio wall.

The way I saw it, the mother of the baby mice probably entered the house to give birth and she lost her life when she went looking for food; there’s no telling how long the babies had been there without food. I believe that when the time was right, she would have led her babies out of the house and taught them the skills they needed to survive and no one would have died.

As a kitten, every creature I met was my friend, and the death of the little mice taught me that all life deserves respect. As an adult, I’m well fed and I have no need to hunt. However, nature being what it is, I have those urges, but unless it’s a matter of survival, it’s up to me to decide whether to act on them or not.

Now, the trail that Simon and I were following led to a clearing––an empty lot, actually. The only thing on the overgrown property was a decaying shed at the rear of the property. We slipped through an opening in the door and disappeared inside. Another two sleek Siamese cats came through the opening and––following them––an additional two cats.

I hoped Misty had found a good listening spot, and a few minutes later, I saw her half-hidden by a wild grapevine that covered most of the shed. Simon was aware of her presence and wanted to scare her into returning home. However, I assured him that she was no threat. Inside the shed, all the cats formed a circle. I sat next to Simon, and even though I felt uncomfortable, I made no move to leave.

Sometime later, I made my way back to the house with Simon’s last words firmly embedded in my brain. “There are thousands of us roaming the country––the world, in fact. Join us and I will teach you things you never thought possible. Together, you and I can make a difference for the good of all humankind.”

The seduction was subtle, the lure of power intoxicating. As I ambled along, I mulled over the events of the night, my mind flirting with the idea of freely wandering wherever I wished, the possibilities endless. An owl hooted in the distance; a small mammal skittered nearby, filling the space around me with harmony and peace. What Simon proposed was enticing––roaming for the good of all humankind, deciding for ourselves what to do, whom to help. The question was did he mean it? Was he really interested in helping others? I told myself that if I joined him, I would make sure that’s what we did.

I caught up with Misty, who’d left a few minutes before I did, running as fast as her short legs would let her, any sign of clumsiness gone, quite at home in the dark overgrown jungle. I was glad that Misty had overheard our conversation, because it would make it easier on her if I decided to leave. I could only imagine what she was thinking when she realized I was considering it.

Although, Misty had shown a great deal of courage, her sudden, loud scream was alarming. My first thought was will she remember the self-defense maneuvers I’d taught her when I’d attacked her when we were playing? I’d never really hurt her … and I was worried. When I caught up with her, a young female cat with razor sharp claws and battle scars had her up against the fence in the rear of the yard. Misty, her fur puffed out, her pupils huge in her small furry face looked fierce, determined, and fearless as she loudly told the other cat to back off, or she’d be sorry. Pooky arrived at the same time I did, and when the young female saw us all take a stand next to Misty; she knew to look for an escape route. Cat protocol dictated that she back up slowly and, once at a safe distance, she ran, tail low.

Misty was one furious fur-ball as we trotted to the safety of home, all the while asserting that she could have taken care of herself.