Kitty

Yes, I completely understand that "Kitty" may be a lame name for a pet cat, but that is the name of the first pet cat I had the pleasure of knowing. Perhaps to add insult to injury, we ended up keeping one of her kittens, and promptly named her... "Pussy."

Now, when you really stop and think about it, Kitty worked pretty well, especially when calling for her at the door.  Here Kitty-Kitty-Kitty is much easier than saying... here boots-boots-boots.  Of course, times have changed a lot, so yelling for the other cat may cause some to cringe.

Anyway, Kitty came to be our cat one day when I was probably around five-years-old. I was sitting on the steps of our back porch as bored and lonely as any five-year-old ought to be. Out of nowhere, walking toward me on the old brick sidewalk was a little Persian-mix cat. She had medium-length, charcoal colored fur with lighter colors mixed into it.

The cat saw me sitting on the steps, chin resting on my hands, eyes focused on nothing in particular, and she decided that this little boy needed company. As she walked, she was looking right into my eyes, and meowing every three or four steps.

Of course, I sat straight up and was instantly un-bored. The friendly cat promptly climbed the steps and began to purr and rub all around my legs and back. I stroked her soft fur and she practically melted with appreciation, or so it seemed.

This cat gave to me endless hours of companionship over the following years, and she provided a remarkable lesson about the miracle of life. Kitty seemed to have a special knack at having kittens. Of course, I was oblivious to the "why was she having kittens" aspect of this, but I was gifted with numerous opportunities to watch as she gave birth.

One of those kittens, as I mentioned, was just too difficult to part with. She was a longer haired, smoky-grey cat that must have inherited the Persian side of the family tree. She seemed to be more of a puff of fluff, than anything else.

On New Year’s Eve day, about the year 1967, I woke up in the wee hours with a sore throat. I grabbed my little green Boy Scout flashlight and got a drink of water from the kitchen sink.

It did not help, so I waddled to my parent's room, and tried to wake up my mom. Suddenly, my dad sat straight up in bed and shouted, "Elaine, there’s smoke in the house!"  He could see it in the beam of my flashlight.

Well, after some frantic running about, trying to wake everyone up, we headed toward the sub-zero night to make our way across the street to the neighbor’s house. As we passed through the pantry, my dad opened the basement door.

Huge plumes of smoke shot up the stairs and out the top of the doorway. Suddenly, one of the cats (I am not sure which one) came rocketing up the stairs and out the back door.

Our house burned completely up that night, and as it turns out, we were lucky to have gotten out when we did. The floors collapsed about fifteen minutes later. It was both fascinating and gut wrenching to watch from the neighbor’s upstairs window as flames roared in and out and all around the old two-story house.

The air was so cold, that the poor Firemen could not hold their coffee for more than five minutes before it would freeze solid. Layers of ice covered their coats, helmets and boots.

I never saw our cats after that night. I fear that one of them never made it out of the house, and the other may have succumbed to the bitter cold. It was a tragic experience all around, and one that stays vivid in my memory to this day.

In any case, I am glad that my two furry little feline friends were a part of my childhood, and I have enjoyed the company of cats ever since.

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Copyright ©2007 by Phil Harris