Lucky

When we bought our farm, I knew that my husband planned to have a few animals. We came here 5 years ago with just a cat. Taking inventory of the situation last week, I realized we now have three dogs, three cats, 9 hens, 1 rooster, a lot of homing pigeons (they keep multiplying – I don’t know how many) and lately we’ve been trying our hand at raising a few pigs. Aaron is talking about adding a couple of cows this summer – we’re still working out the details on that one. And not long ago the kids were telling him how much they’d love to have some goats. (Goats? Seriously?) The worst part about suggesting new animals to my husband is that he is more than likely to follow through. He buys animals for the kids the way I might buy them a candy bar at the grocery store.

At some point or another, I’m sure I’ll write about each of the animals that have a home with us. Every animal is important to someone for some reason, and I like the level of responsibility that having them is teaching my kids.

Today I want to write about Lucky. Lucky is our outside Tomcat. He lives in the garage, and has the auspicious responsibility of keeping the mouse population at a minimum. He’s also taken it upon himself to keep feral cats off our property too, which is no small task. Before Lucky came to live with us, we would have a different random cat wandering our property at any given time.

Aaron found Lucky about 3 years ago, when he rescued him from the burn pit out back of our house. We don’t burn all that often, and it’s a fortunate thing, because this poor, tiny, mewling kitten was trying to live in it. There was no mama-cat anywhere around, and this little creature was barely recognizable as feline. It was jet-black and its fur was so matted and dirty, I couldn’t really tell it was even a cat.

We brought him in the house and bathed him. We already had some ear drops for the mites he was carrying, so I dropped a few drops in him and made a little nest in the front porch. When he was wet, his body was no larger than a gerbil. He was clearly in bad shape, and I didn’t have a lot of faith that he would make it. But never underestimate the love of a young child; it is powerful indeed. My oldest daughter spent hours in the porch with that cat, coaxing food and milk and water into it, and loving it just as hard as she could.

When we were pretty sure he was going to make it, we decided it would be okay to name him. 5-year old Emma had a lot of ideas. First she wanted to name him “Strawberry.” Given his jet-black color, that was a little difficult for me to go along with. After much deliberation, Dora, Nemo, and Princess were also eliminated as options. Finally Aaron said, “We’ll call him Lucky because he’s lucky to be alive.” That satisfied her, and Lucky he became.

Eventually, the cat looked strong enough to bring into the house. It was clear from the start that it would not be getting along at all with the cat in residence. Seven is my 12-year old tabby that I got when I first moved to Colorado. She’s been my baby for a long time, and considers the house to be her personal castle. I somehow thought that “Lucky” and “Seven” seemed to be names that went well together; therefore it was a good omen for their future relationship. In reality, they hate each other with a ferocity that is both impressive and alarming.

What reasonable pet owner could banish an established member of the family in favor of a younger version? Not me, I say. We made a comfortable home in the garage for the new kitten and Emma transferred her daily food/water/attention/love ritual to the garage.

In the last 3 years, Lucky has evolved from the “Little Kitten That Could” into something you would be afraid to meet in a dark alley. We must live on a feral cat highway or something, because we’ve had a lot of cats wandering around, at least we did in the early days. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen one in a long time. The boundary he’s created for the farm must reach beyond the line of my hearing. His arrogance grows with every cat he battles, and he swaggers around the farm like the seasoned Tom he is. I think his job description prohibits him from being a very cuddly cat.

Lucky is the one animal on the farm that no one messes with. And I mean no one. Every dog on our farm maintains a wide berth around that creature. The house cats will sometimes play at the deck screen and if Lucky happens to be on the deck he will pace the screen making god-awful sounds trying to get at the house cats. He’s friendly to me in an “I won’t claw you, but don’t touch me unless I want you to” kind of way.

But he does have a well of affection for Emma. She’s allowed to pick him up, and he purrs something fierce in her arms. He rubs his head hard all over her chin, which is actually a little endearing and also kind of disgusting. The top of his head bears the scars of his many battles, and it is rough, scratchy, and missing chunks of fur. But these two have a bond, of that there is no doubt.

One morning we came outside to find him loudly meowing in the yard. Emma could see he had some swelling over that eye. It took three of us to get him wrapped in a towel and put in a kennel to take him to the vet. We were able to get an antibiotic for him, (do not ask me what the vet was thinking…do you really expect me to forcibly get 10 tiny little pills down the throat of a cat who doesn’t like me all that much anyway?!) And I won’t go into the description of that event. But he healed up, and lives to battle another day.

Lucky’s birthday is this weekend. Well, his “Found You” day, anyway. We’re thankful for him, and consider him to be part of our animal family. I will find a way to celebrate him whether he wants to acknowledge me or not.