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Barn cats are a fact of life for anyone who keeps, well, a barn. Growing up on a dairy farm and now, having horses, I'm more than familiar with the pros and cons of keeping barn cats. What it boils down to is, we need them. Rodents are filthy and destructive. They spread disease and ruin things we invest a lot of money in, not to mention, are a fire hazard. But the barn cat is basically a feral cat that people entice to stay around by leaving out food and providing a place to sleep. Every barn I've ever been to has had a native population of community cats. It's not smart to get attached to them. Barns are dangerous places, and being an outdoor cat has risks all its own. I think I learned in school that the average life span of a barn cat is 2 years. In my experience, that's pretty close.
And see, I'm a logical person who knows these things. Every year there are kittens born in the barn that I swear I will never get attached to. I do my best to ignore them and look the other way, if say, you come to the barn one morning to find one has been squished by a horse or maybe eaten by another cat. I know these kittens never live more than a year out here. I know it.
But then, something always happens to make me start thinking in the second person instead of the first, because I can totally see what's coming, and I would never go there, but you would.
One day you're out in the yard and you hear some poor wretched thing crying and carrying on only to find it hanging upside down with one leg caught between some slats, and you wonder how long the poor thing's been trapped like that. You let it loose, of course you do. Who wouldn't? But then, that little bastard attaches himself to you, and he's the most grateful, affectionate cat you've ever seen, including your own house cat who is kind of a bitch on a good day. :P And you actually look forward to being out in the barn and don't mind if the little brat cat keeps getting in the way, because he's just so damned cute, ya know? And you give him a stupid name, like Charlie Brown, because he's just that wishy-washy and will love anyone who gives him a scratch behind the ears.
He lives a whole year, and shorten the name to Chuck. If you sometimes call him Chuckles, it's not a pet name, because barn cats are not pets.
After awhile you even tell yourself, "Boy, he's getting really big and fat. I bet he's strong enough to beat the odds."
But you know, they never, ever do. And then you're right back where you are every year, crying over a cat that never even belonged to anyone, and there's a row of little petrified wood tombstones with no names on them behind the barn, because you can't do the sensible thing and just toss them over the fence like your grandpa taught you.
And of course, it's the cat's fault. You're smart enough not to get attached. They never are.
Damn you, Chuckles!
I hope that mama cat has finally gone sterile. We're running out of room behind the barn.
And see, I'm a logical person who knows these things. Every year there are kittens born in the barn that I swear I will never get attached to. I do my best to ignore them and look the other way, if say, you come to the barn one morning to find one has been squished by a horse or maybe eaten by another cat. I know these kittens never live more than a year out here. I know it.
But then, something always happens to make me start thinking in the second person instead of the first, because I can totally see what's coming, and I would never go there, but you would.
One day you're out in the yard and you hear some poor wretched thing crying and carrying on only to find it hanging upside down with one leg caught between some slats, and you wonder how long the poor thing's been trapped like that. You let it loose, of course you do. Who wouldn't? But then, that little bastard attaches himself to you, and he's the most grateful, affectionate cat you've ever seen, including your own house cat who is kind of a bitch on a good day. :P And you actually look forward to being out in the barn and don't mind if the little brat cat keeps getting in the way, because he's just so damned cute, ya know? And you give him a stupid name, like Charlie Brown, because he's just that wishy-washy and will love anyone who gives him a scratch behind the ears.
He lives a whole year, and shorten the name to Chuck. If you sometimes call him Chuckles, it's not a pet name, because barn cats are not pets.
After awhile you even tell yourself, "Boy, he's getting really big and fat. I bet he's strong enough to beat the odds."
But you know, they never, ever do. And then you're right back where you are every year, crying over a cat that never even belonged to anyone, and there's a row of little petrified wood tombstones with no names on them behind the barn, because you can't do the sensible thing and just toss them over the fence like your grandpa taught you.
And of course, it's the cat's fault. You're smart enough not to get attached. They never are.
Damn you, Chuckles!
I hope that mama cat has finally gone sterile. We're running out of room behind the barn.
