Late summer of 2022, I connected with Sarah Magee, a tenderhearted woman who is in the business of rehoming cats. We were in need of a couple of natural mouse hunters and knew of her reputation of finding homes for healthy, neutered cats. She has since established a nonprofit called Joy’s Place Animal Rescue.
For a couple of years, it was just the two cats we received from Sarah. They settled in very comfortably and since their arrival, we’ve had an almost non-existent rodent problem. Extremely satisfying.
Over time, I noticed we began to have a transient visitor. A battle-scarred and weatherworn cat would trudge over to our house from parts unknown, to hydrate and replenish. I saw him once come right down the road. The next time I’d spot him, he’d be picking his way through our corn field. His appearance was sporadic and his countenance cautious, always with the notion he was trespassing and seemingly would get kicked out right soon if he didn’t watch out.
His yellow coat appeared stained, marred with tufts sticking up hither and yon, burrs embedded in his tail; ear bent sideways, evidence of a fierce clash at some point. His eyes looked mattered. We perceived he had little peripheral vision, was likely deaf (he didn’t appear to startle easily) and probably half blind. A complete sorry sight, to be honest.
Later, to my dismay, I realized I had not offered him the greatest hospitality. In my mind, I had two sweet girls who loved their private domain and were very content to live in the barn with only each other for company. Not wanting to rock the boat, I did nothing to encourage this uninvited visitor to our home barn.
After some time, he was coming quite often — as much as I can remember, every other day. With disdain, I started calling him Freddy the Freeloader. Ashamed, I do admit that and have since asked Freddy to forgive me.
These days he has joined us full-time, sleeps tucked in a straw hole he’s fashioned for himself in our safe, dry barn; very close to the breakfast/dinner/supper table as this is an eat-when-the-desire-hits smorgasbord.
With regular feeding and fresh water plus TLC (he’s allowed me to pet him), the transformation has been remarkable. His coat has since become glossy yellow, he’s filled out, his burrs are gone and eyes clear and focused. Contrary to our first impression that he’s hard of hearing, he comes running as soon as I walk into the barn calling my usual greeting in a singsong voice, “Good morning, my kitties. How’s everyone doing?” The trio come like a mad stampede, meowing their acknowledgement as I slip through the door — their loud purring, music to my ears.
I was never, ever a cat person. Growing up on the farm and even in the farm marriage partnership my husband and I share, we never had cats as so-called pets. They were there for one purpose: rodent control.
These days, the cats in my barn are dearly loved and pampered. They have new portions of dry cat food and clean, fresh water daily. I say that not to brag at all — it’s what people are supposed to do if they have animals in their care — but back in the day, barn cats were treated more like they’re there for a purpose, not a pampering. If one happened to perish, I did not bemoan that fact. It just was.
If one of mine go on a retreat, I fret, giving my (trying so hard to focus) husband an up-to-date attendance report. “Little Yellow has been gone for a full week now.” or “Graycie hasn’t shown up since last Tuesday. She was there when we had that one storm, remember?” or “Where on earth do they go?” or “I wonder where Fred came from?” As if he has the answer. He listens with a bewildered smile and oh so patiently, but doesn’t have an invested heart like me. I get it.
In the barn next to the kitty’s food and water bowls, we’ve placed a live trap. I had noticed that many times — even when there were just the two of them up there — their food and water were completely empty. No way could just two cats consume all of that in one day.
Setting the trap, we’ve humanely caught quite a number of raccoons and opossums over the years. Their home is out in the woods making a living. When they come into my territory and eat the food I purchased for my cats, it’s game on. Sorry woodland creatures; you’re trespassing.
So now it’s my three musketeers up in the barn mow. When before the new one was met with a low growl, they’ve all slowly started to make friends. I discovered with delight one day all three had their heads in the breakfast bowl at the same time. Freddy the Freeloader has since been affectionately dubbed simply “Fred.” He’s one of us and has a place at the table.
(“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters.” Colossians 3:23)
Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.
Farm Life From a Farm Wife
