Found on the 'net.... LONG.

Surfing the 'net late at night, as I sometimes do, I came across these
two stories. One personal, first. And the second, professional.

The first is all too familiar to those who have done rescue work.

The second one is just interesting, at least to me.

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It's amazing how many cats have found their way to us over the years.
Cats that were hurt, poisoned, dying or just hungry. And each time the
responsible action was taken. We were well enough known for our love of
cats that the local vets would open their doors 24/7 if we called. We
had to end the suffering of several, but if that was the only option,
the furbabies were touched, scratched, soft calming words were
whispered, and promises of meeting at Rainbow Bridge were given. Even
the ones we never saw before were given the same love as the 3 that live
with us now.

Thursday I had to let a badly hurt stray go wait for me at the Bridge.
We were calling him Thomas D. Stray. He was this year's edition. He
showed up on our back porch looking for some food. It took me over a
week to find out he was a he. A skinny little guy probably about 6
months old. He was very skitty, very wary of humans. Slowly I won his
trust. Eventually he came over to me and rubbed my leg and I reached
down and scratched his head. Instant purrbox. He was definitely not a
feral cat. He knew human contact. He even gave my neck a nuzzle. And he
wanted IN in the worst way. But before he could join our family he had
to get a clean bill of health, his shots and be neutered. We had decided
to do this when my husband got his paycheck.

I hadn't seen him for 2 days-the food wasn't being eaten, he appeared to
have moved on.

Then today (Thursday) he showed up at the front door, jumping the screen
and yelling. When I got to him I saw he was wet, matted, then I saw the
first of the injuries, his leg was bloodied. I ran for my carrier and a
towel. We rushed to the vet.

He was hurt much more badly than I initially realized. It was amazing he
even got back to me. But he knew where help was. He knew if anyone would
help him it was here.

He didn't get to come home with me. But he isn't in pain anymore either.
I promised I would find him at the Bridge.

So here I sit, bawling like a baby over the loss of a little cat who
just wanted to be warm and safe and loved.

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The Price

by Neil Gaiman


Tramps and vagabonds have marks they make on gateposts and trees and
doors, letting others of their kind know a little about the people who
live at the houses and farms they pass on their travels. I think cats
must leave similar signs; how else to explain the cats who turn up at
our door through the year, hungry and flea-ridden and abandoned?

We take them in. We get rid of the fleas and the ticks, feed them and
take them to the vet. We pay for them to get their shots, and, indignity
upon indignity, we have them neutered or spayed.

And they stay with us, for a few months, or for a year, or for ever.

Most of them arrive in summer. We live in the country, just the right
distance out of town for the city-dwellers to abandon their cats near
us.

We never seem to have more than eight cats, rarely have less than three.
The cat population of my house is currently as follows: Hermione and
Pod, tabby and black respectively, the mad sisters who live in my attic
office, and do not mingle; Princess, the blue-eyed long-haired white
cat, who lived wild in the woods for years before she gave up her wild
ways for soft sofas and beds; and, last but largest, Furball, Princess's
cushion-like calico long-haired daughter, orange and black and white,
whom I discovered as a tiny kitten in our garage one day, strangled and
almost dead, her head poked through an old badminton net, and who
surprised us all by not dying but instead growing up to be the
best-natured cat I have ever encountered.

And then there is the black cat. Who has no other name than the Black
Cat, and who turned up almost a month ago. We did not realise he was
going to be living here at first: he looked too well-fed to be a stray,
too old and jaunty to have been abandoned. He looked like a small
panther, and he moved like a patch of night.

One day, in the summer, he was lurking about our ramshackle porch: eight
or nine years old, at a guess, male, greenish-yellow of eye, very
friendly, quite unperturbable. I assumed he belonged to a neighbouring
farmer or household.

I went away for a few weeks, to finish writing a book, and when I came
home he was still on our porch, living in an old cat- bed one of the
children had found for him. He was, however, almost unrecognizable.
Patches of fur had gone, and there were deep scratches on his grey skin.
The tip of one ear was chewed away. There was a gash beneath one eye, a
slice gone from one lip. He looked tired and thin.

We took the Black Cat to the vet, where we got him some antibiotics,
which we fed him each night, along with soft cat food.

We wondered who he was fighting. Princess, our white, beautiful,
near-feral queen? Raccoons? A rat-tailed, fanged possum?

Each night the scratches would be worse -- one night his side would be
chewed-up; the next, it would be his underbelly, raked with claw marks
and bloody to the touch.

When it got to that point, I took him down to the basement to recover,
beside the furnace and the piles of boxes. He was surprisingly heavy,
the Black Cat, and I picked him up and carried him down there, with a
cat-basket, and a litter bin, and some food and water. I closed the door
behind me. I had to wash the blood from my hands, when I left the
basement.

He stayed down there for four days. At first he seemed too weak to feed
himself: a cut beneath one eye had rendered him almost one-eyed, and he
limped and lolled weakly, thick yellow pus oozing from the cut in his
lip.

I went down there every morning and every night, and I fed him, and gave
him antibiotics, which I mixed with his canned food, and I dabbed at the
worst of the cuts, and spoke to him. He had diarrhoea, and, although I
changed his litter daily, the basement stank evilly.

The four days that the Black Cat lived in the basement were a bad four
days in my house: the baby slipped in the bath, and banged her head, and
might have drowned; I learned that a project I had set my heart on --
adapting Hope Mirrlees' novel Lud in the Mist for the BBC -- was no
longer going to happen, and I realised that I did not have the energy to
begin again from scratch, pitching it to other networks, or to other
media; my daughter left for Summer Camp, and immediately began to send
home a plethora of heart-tearing letters and cards, five or six each
day, imploring us to take her away; my son had some kind of fight with
his best friend, to the point that they were no longer on speaking
terms; and returning home one night, my wife hit a deer, who ran out in
front of the car. The deer was killed, the car was left undriveable, and
my wife sustained a small cut over one eye.

By the fourth day, the cat was prowling the basement, walking haltingly
but impatiently between the stacks of books and comics, the boxes of
mail and cassettes, of pictures and of gifts and of stuff. He mewed at
me to let him out and, reluctantly, I did so.

He went back onto the porch, and slept there for the rest of the day.

The next morning there were deep, new gashes in his flanks, and clumps
of black cat-hair -- his -- covered the wooden boards of the porch.

Letters arrived that day from my daughter, telling us that Camp was
going better, and she thought she could survive a few days; my son and
his friend sorted out their problem, although what the argument was
about -- trading cards, computer games, Star Wars or A Girl -- I would
never learn. The BBC Executive who had vetoed Lud in the Mist was
discovered to have been taking bribes (well, 'questionable loans') from
an independent production company, and was sent home on permanent leave:
his successor, I was delighted to learn, when she faxed me, was the
woman who had initially proposed the project to me before leaving the
BBC.

I thought about returning the Black Cat to the basement, but decided
against it. Instead, I resolved to try and discover what kind of animal
was coming to our house each night, and from there to formulate a plan
of action -- to trap it, perhaps.

For birthdays and at Christmas my family gives me gadgets and gizmos,
pricy toys which excite my fancy but, ultimately, rarely leave their
boxes. There is a food dehydrator and an electric carving knife, a
bread-making machine, and, last year's present, a pair of
see-in-the-dark binoculars. On Christmas Day I had put the batteries
into the binoculars, and had walked about the basement in the dark, too
impatient even to wait until nightfall, stalking a flock of imaginary
Starlings. (You were warned not to turn it on in the light: that would
have damaged the binoculars, and quite possibly your eyes as well.)
Afterwards I had put the device back into its box, and it sat there
still, in my office, beside the box of computer cables and forgotten
bits and pieces.

Perhaps, I thought, if the creature, dog or cat or raccoon or
what-have-you, were to see me sitting on the porch, it would not come,
so I took a chair into the box-and-coat-room, little larger than a
closet, which overlooks the porch, and, when everyone in the house was
asleep, I went out onto the porch, and bade the Black Cat goodnight.

That cat, my wife had said, when he first arrived, is a person. And
there was something very person-like in his huge, leonine face: his
broad black nose, his greenish-yellow eyes, his fanged but amiable mouth
(still leaking amber pus from the right lower lip).

I stroked his head, and scratched him beneath the chin, and wished him
well. Then I went inside, and turned off the light on the porch.

I sat on my chair, in the darkness inside the house, with the
see-in-the-dark binoculars on my lap. I had switched the binoculars on,
and a trickle of greenish light came from the eyepieces.

Time passed, in the darkness.

I experimented with looking at the darkness with the binoculars,
learning to focus, to see the world in shades of green. I found myself
horrified by the number of swarming insects I could see in the night
air: it was as if the night world were some kind of nightmarish soup,
swimming with life. Then I lowered the binoculars from my eyes, and
stared out at the rich blacks and blues of the night, empty and peaceful
and calm.

Time passed. I struggled to keep awake, found myself profoundly missing
cigarettes and coffee, my two lost addictions. Either of them would have
kept my eyes open. But before I had tumbled too far into the world of
sleep and dreams a yowl from the garden jerked me fully awake. I fumbled
the binoculars to my eyes, and was disappointed to see that it was
merely Princess, the white cat, streaking across the front garden like a
patch of greenish-white light. She vanished into the woodland to the
left of the house, and was gone.

I was about to settle myself back down, when it occurred to me to wonder
what exactly had startled Princess so, and I began scanning the middle
distance with the binoculars, looking for a huge raccoon, a dog, or a
vicious possum. And there was indeed something coming down the driveway,
towards the house. I could see it through the binoculars, clear as day.

It was the Devil.

I had never seen the Devil before, and, although I had written about him
in the past, if pressed would have confessed that I had no belief in
him, other than as an imaginary figure, tragic and Miltonion. The figure
coming up the driveway was not Milton's Lucifer. It was the Devil.

My heart began to pound in my chest, to pound so hard that it hurt. I
hoped it could not see me, that, in a dark house, behind window-glass, I
was hidden.

The figure flickered and changed as it walked up the drive. One moment
it was dark, bull-like, minotaurish, the next it was slim and female,
and the next it was a cat itself, a scarred, huge grey-green wildcat,
its face contorted with hate.

There are steps that lead up to my porch, four white wooden steps in
need of a coat of paint (I knew they were white, although they were,
like everything else, green through my binoculars). At the bottom of the
steps, the Devil stopped, and called out something that I could not
understand, three, perhaps four words in a whining, howling language
that must have been old and forgotten when Babylon was young; and,
although I did not understand the words, I felt the hairs raise on the
back of my head as it called.

And then I heard, muffled through the glass, but still audible, a low
growl, a challenge, and, slowly, unsteadily, a black figure walked down
the steps of the house, away from me, toward the Devil. These days the
Black Cat no longer moved like a panther, instead he stumbled and
rocked, like a sailor only recently returned to land.

The Devil was a woman, now. She said something soothing and gentle to
the cat, in a tongue that sounded like French, and reached out a hand to
him. He sank his teeth into her arm, and her lip curled, and she spat at
him.

The woman glanced up at me, then, and if I had doubted that she was the
Devil before, I was certain of it now: the woman's eyes flashed red fire
at me; but you can see no red through the night-vision binoculars, only
shades of a green. And the Devil saw me, through the window. It saw me.
I am in no doubt about that at all.

The Devil twisted and writhed, and now it was some kind of jackal, a
flat-faced, huge-headed, bull-necked creature, halfway between a hyena
and a dingo. There were maggots squirming in its mangy fur, and it began
to walk up the steps.

The Black Cat leapt upon it, and in seconds they became a rolling,
writhing thing, moving faster than my eyes could follow.

All this in silence.

And then a low roar -- down the country road at the bottom of our drive,
in the distance, lumbered a late-night truck, its blazing headlights
burning bright as green suns through the binoculars. I lowered them from
my eyes, and saw only darkness, and the gentle yellow of headlights, and
then the red of rear lights as it vanished off again into the nowhere at
all.

When I raised the binoculars once more there was nothing to be seen.
Only the Black Cat, on the steps, staring up into the air. I trained the
binoculars up, and saw something flying away - - a vulture, perhaps, or
an eagle -- and then it flew beyond the trees and was gone.

I went out onto the porch, and picked up the Black Cat, and stroked him,
and said kind, soothing things to him. He mewled piteously when I first
approached him, but, after a while, he went to sleep on my lap, and I
put him into his basket, and went upstairs to my bed, to sleep myself.
There was dried blood on my tee shirt and jeans, the following morning.

That was a week ago.

The thing that comes to my house does not come every night. But it comes
most nights: we know it by the wounds on the cat, and the pain I can see
in those leonine eyes. He has lost the use of his front left paw, and
his right eye has closed for good.

I wonder what we did to deserve the Black Cat. I wonder who sent him.
And, selfish and scared, I wonder how much more he has to give.

END

~~~~~~~~~~~~ ^..^

"Life without cats would be only marginally worth living."
-TC, and the unmercifully, relentlessly, sweet calico kitty, Kenzie.

Every day is a treasure with Kenzie; I try to treat them that way. There
will only be so many, and then there will never, ever, be any more.

How you behave towards cats here below determines your status in Heaven.
- Robert Heinlein