The story of the cat that got even in the cold

Some people invite their pet cats into their homes. On a really cold night they give that cat a cozy spot at the foot of the bed. I belong to that tribe of do-gooders. People who don’t like cats never let themselves think of such a thing. We cat lovers usually get a lecture from the “non-thinkers” to remind us. My lecture would come that evening when frost was everywhere.

I have two playful kittens that expect to be in the house any time they please. Then there is Omar, five years older, all black, bigger, stronger and treats the younger ones as if he were their uncle. He knows he must sleep by himself and be content in his little bed in the garage.

That night, something happened. I hustled the kittens to bed and looked out the window. There was Omar, outside the window staring at me, waiting for the door to open and let him in. The words of my lecturer and reminder were fresh in my thoughts. “Are you letting that cat in the house? He’s probably full of fleas and who knows what else.” During his tirade I thought, “I suppose Omar could stay out one night. His fur is thick. He’ll be all right.” I tried to avoid looking at the cat as I passed the window. I didn’t want to leave Omar by himself in the cold when he could have joined the privileged youngsters.

In the morning, two kittens came to their breakfast. There wasn’t a large black cat to be seen anywhere. I called for Omar several times. Surely he would come from wherever he had been. He didn’t answer. His breakfast became a kitten’s feast.

I told the kittens we must bundle up and find him. Out we went, scanning the garage first. I began to call about every five seconds. The kittens were smart. They studied the rafters and peeked under the car while I called and looked in places where Omar might be. What if that raccoon that people sometimes see near their homes had grabbed him? What if—oh no! That must not happen. I continued my monotonous plea, “Omar, here Omar, Omar.”

The kittens were restless, chasing each other, looking for a fly or a mouse to catch. I was very cold and I finally raised my voice, “Please, Mr. Omar! I don’t want to lose you.” My calls were still not answered. The kittens bounced around while I kept a solid step-by-step search, determined to observe every object that might indicate the remains of a large black cat.

People don’t always think about what or why when they suddenly do something. I turned around. Two steps behind me on the trail was a large black cat. He was following me. He looked happy. “It’s Omar,” I screeched. “It’s Omar!” He kept his smile as he trotted behind me to the house. I scrambled to give Omar a quick breakfast and told him as he ate how happy I was to see him. Omar munched his breakfast quietly without showing how hungry he must be.

In fact, I wondered if he had encountered a kind person who may have fed him. Then I saw what had really happened. While I was searching and shivering in the cold for a lost cat, my Omar knew all the time that home was just a few steps away. By the back door someone had left a pan of cat food. Omar knew the food was there and the back door would shelter him. Was this the work of my lecturer? A man who cared for both me and the cat, but kept this little jaunt to himself.

“Well, Omar,” I looked him straight in the eye, “how about you men let me in on your little secret. We’re going to have some fun!”

Luella Dow is a Cheney-area author. She can be reached at [email protected].