Most of the farm cats had hard lives. They had full time jobs (catching mice) and not much food. Their diets consisted of mouse meat and cow milk. They lived in the barn and had litters of kittens in an incestuous kind of way. The gene pool of the Whirlwind Hill cats was pretty shallow. At some point, way back when, a cat with extra toes must have made an appearance, because by the time I paid attention, almost all the cats had what we referred to as “double paws.”
We were encouraged not to make pets of them. My sweet grandfather was in charge of “game management,” and must have hated to do what needed to be done to keep the numbers in check.
But my grandmother had a soft spot for cats and managed to find a way to keep a succession of kitties in the house.
“Agnes and her Cats,” Carol Crump Bryner, drawing and collage, 1975
She talks about two of them in letters she wrote to my mother at college.
“Beautiful, the cat, is in my lap. He is gorgeous this fall.”
“I have a funny looking, dirty looking friendly cat from Aunt Annie. I call it Smudge.”
In my generation there was Sally Cat, a motherly calico with double paws. We played with her babies until it was their turn for barn duty. But Sally Cat stayed near the house. She was a smart feline. I found a photo of some of the barn cats. If that calico cat isn’t Sally Cat, it’s at least one of her ancestors.
Barn cat and kittens
The last cat on the farm was a grey tabby kitten rescued by my grandmother after he was hit by a car. The accident damaged his jaw, and from then on his bottom teeth closed over his top lip, giving him a sinister look. But he was sweet and loving, and he kept my grandmother company for a long time, especially during the two years she lived alone after my grandfather died. Grandma Hall named him Pussy Willow and claimed that he would eat nothing but “Nine Lives Tuna.” She told us to have Pussy Willow put to sleep after her death. She didn’t think the cat could live with anyone but her.
But he survived her by many years. My Uncle Francis and Aunt Glenna took him in and he thrived. Whenever I saw Pussy Willow after my grandmother died I felt that a little bit of her was still there with him. They had given each other so much comfort and companionship. He had a very good life.
Pussy Willow on the lounge
On Monday: Half-Remembered Rooms
Cats rule. Long live cats. Pussy Willow such a survivor – what a lovely story. Thank you for all these stories bringing the farm and its denizens to life.
Yes. Cats rule. And Pussy Willow definitely ruled. It must have been nice for my grandmother after years and years of taking care of so many people and creatures to have just the one lap buddy.
We had a small, sixteen acre “farm” in Bend, Oregon, when I was a child. I’ve written several pieces about life there and one of them remembers the barn cats and the one “house” manx who lived a much more sheltered life. Pussy Willow looks like one of the REDHOUSEWEST darlings and my old tabby. I love your stories, Carol. You’ve inspired my writing similar pieces using family photos and newly photographed family furniture and china, handed down generation to generation. I like the conciseness. I have a feeling of a quilt in the making, one of family history and memories as I “read’ the pieces. Thank you!
Thank you so much, Susan. I would someday love to read your recollections of your farm. I know you write beautifully from reading your comments on Red House West. Maybe you should try this blog adventure. I, for one, would be an eager subscriber to it.