Farewell, Garden Cats

The past two summers have seen a growing pride of cats scampering around in my garden and the yards of my neighbors. I called them the Garden Cats and always kept out cat chow and water for them, as did the neighbors.

They never got too close. But they would come running when I came outside. They would follow me around as I watered, weeded, planted. They would hide in the hostas and pounce at me before running away, tails in the air and ears back. They would sit behind the tomatoes on the south side of the garage, soaking up the sun. I know I shouldn't have gotten too attached to stray cats, but I went ahead and named them anyway.

This is MommaCat, the delicate, sweet matriarch of the pride.

This is OtherMommaCat drinking from my kitty-shaped birdbath.
I thought she was the dapper daddy, all tuxed up,
until "his" tummy got bigger and bigger. And bigger.
Then I finally figured out my mistake.

These are two of this spring's babies, Cricket and Bat.
I took the photo through my kitchen window
(which needs to be washed, evidently...).

Here's Moustache, resting in the shade of the lilac tree.

One night while I was on a walk, I saw the maintenance guy from the apartment complex down the street in his garage. With a cat in a live trap. It was Moustache. I stomped over and demanded to know what he was doing. "Trapping these damned cats and letting the cops take them." It seems the apartment complex didn't want residents feeding them anymore and was taking action.

Talk about taking action -- my neigbors and I were up in arms. We spent more than a few long phone calls and talks over back fences, crying and trying to figure out what to do with the kitties. I told one of my friends the sad story and she said she would love to have them on her farm.

Over the next few weeks, we managed to take Cricket, Bat and Moustache to Ranae's farm. OtherMommaCat and her new kittens went to another good farm home. All seemed well.

Until we heard that the maintenance guy had trapped MommaCat and taken her "to a farm off the Judson Bottom Road." But wouldn't tell us where. She'd just had kittens. "She's just a cat," the maintenance guy said. Perhaps to him. To me and the rest of the neighborhood, she was a friend and a joy, a lovely little presence, a good mother to her delightful babies.

Here she is nursing Moustache. He was STARVING.

I gave the maintenance guy a talking to. Withheld no swear words. Not that it helped. We never did find the kittens or MommaCat.

It makes me a little weepy to write about this. I'll miss their furry little presences in my garden, being surprised to find a sleeping kitten while I'm clearing out the hollyhocks or picking raspberries.

People can be cruel. I wish I'd been able to scoop up all the Garden Cats and take care of them in my yard. But it reminds me that all I can do is all I can do. And it reminds me of Mother Theresa's wise words, "Do small things with great love."

Every time I'm in my garden, I will remember. With love.