Cats

The large sale barn provided refuge for multiple cats.  For some reason my dad liked white cats, and the first one I remember was Snowball, a short-haired white female with blue eyes.  One problem with white cats is tendency for their ears sunburn, especially in the winter with the harsh sun reflecting off the snow. So, poor Snowball had sunburned ears that peeled and curled slightly.  Even though she looked a little rough, she produced yearly litters of precious little white kittens.  Many of these kittens were long-haired with blue eyes, looking  just like the an idealized toy for a little girl.  Another memorable cat given to us by someone in town was Leonard.  Now Leonard's rather unremarkable muddled colors did not distinguish her, yes her-- Leonard had a litter of kittens before long and continued to procreate quite effectively. Puss, a huge sleek black tom cat, was a favorite of mine.  He would walk along the top board of the alley pens looking for attention and leap onto my shoulder as I walked by.  I learned to be ready for his hefty impact, though he never used his claws to secure his perch on me.  As a result of cats like Snowball, Leonard and Puss, thirty to forty cats took up residence in our barn.  These cats hunted and helped keep the rodent population at bay protecting the sacks of grain stored in the barn, but even with success in hunting, they mewed longingly as Dad milked the cow, waiting for their share in a pan once he finished.  Mom insisted that we take any table scraps to the barn so the cats weren't underfoot waiting on the steps of the house for their handout.

I throughly enjoyed these cats.  In the spring, finding the first litter of kittens signaled the beginning of a delightful season. Newborn kittens with eyes sealed closed would hiss at my unfamiliar scent in the beginning, but I played with these kittens so much their fear dissipated quickly.  Kittens' acrobatic antics provided me hours of entertainment.  They would spring straight up into the air to pounce on each other and roll and tumble in pretend fighting.  Wiggling my fingers in the hay would entice a kitten to crouch and tackle my fingers.  My hands and arms would be streaked with red scratches from their tiny razor-like claws as a result of their tussling with me in play as I lay in the hay. Playing with the kittens instead of getting my chores done in a timely manner was a continual temptation.  I must confess that once when I had instructions to fill the water pails for the show bulls at midday in the summer, I let my attention drift from my responsibility to these playful kittens, until I heard my dad's pickup drive into the yard. In desperation, I hastily filled the buckets half full to make it seem like I had followed instructions promptly. 

I still like cats and I have two, the only two in the litter, a calico and a tan tabby.  My husband remarks that they are an added  dimension, which is not necessarily a positive comment in his opinion because they do sharpen their claws on things they shouldn't, mess up stacks of papers and throw up on the carpet, but he tolerates them for my sake.  Although cats have a reputation for being aloof, my felines keep me company constantly; nearly anytime I sit down at least one is on my lap. I enjoy their company and they remind me of many hours of playing in the barn in my childhood.