For the first year she was a figment of my imagination, a flash at the corner
of my eye. Could have been a possum or rat. Might have been a squirrel. Maybe even a puny fox, mutated raccoon, lanky
groundhog or mole, whatever that is. Hey, I grew up in New York City where the only wildlife was literally kept
behind bars. It took some time and what I thought immeasurable patience to finally reach the conclusion that what was dashing
through the yard and into the underbrush across the street was a cat. A nondescript, dingy, dismal, fiercely and ferociously
feral feline. I was intrigued.
It’s funny that I thought the initial encounter was so time consuming
because five more years would pass before that critter worked up the courage to barely tolerate my presence in the doorway
while she ate the kibble I’d been leaving as an enticement trail. Her gender established itself when she ballooned
through several pregnancies. On multiple occasions she limped by, dragging a slashed thigh, one nearly severed
ear dangling, her chin raw, dripping crimson, fur absent in large, ragged patches. But she always
managed to survive even when Tennessee winters turned
severe and icy, or the summer months brought drought, searing heat, or surprisingly frequent episodes of tornadic
activity and fearsome thunderstorms. Her name came effortlessly; she was unsinkable, so, of course, I called her Molly.
Based on the authority of experts, I did everything wrong as far as Molly
was concerned. Pawprints & Purrs, Inc., a not-for-profit organization devoted to feline health care, offers an elementary
online course called “Cat Wrangling 101″ which focuses on feral cats. Much of the data presented is alarming:
There are, it is conservatively estimated, between 40 million and 60 million homeless cats in America, with nearly 12 million of them euthanized in the United States each year. And instead of trying to domesticate a cat such as
Molly, I discovered that the more socially acceptable approach would have been to enforce a “TVNR”
management tactic - Trap, Vaccinate, Neuter and Return the animal to its original habitat, however humble. Quite honestly,
that would never have worked with Molly…she is a clever girl and an escape-proof cage has not been designed which
would keep her confined. I considered domesticating Molly a challenge and took it on as a personal dare.
Blatantly ignoring my presence, Molly eventually began lingering
at the door stoop where I silently sat, moving little, casually glancing her way. She was quite homely, her coat
matted, mottled and brindled in varieties of brown, black, burnt sienna, orange, beige. But her eyes, oh, those
golden-green eyes, were a shade no crayon or paint could ever duplicate. She kept them hooded, suspiciously half closed, refusing
to allow them to connect with mine; contact longer than a split second was her cue to flee.
Toward the end of year six, Molly became a household fixture. She appeared
at scheduled meal times, groomed and basked in the sun while I chatted nonsense in her general direction, even
ventured indoors for a quick tour every day. She generally avoided the presence of others and remained quick
to snarl and bolt if annoyed or threatened. But instead of disappearing for days as she previously
had, Molly would merely exit in a huff, returning in time for the next meal.
Looking back, I can’t recall the exact date or season when Molly decided
to grace our home on a permanent basis. One day she came in and didn’t leave. Instead she staked
a claim to a throw pillow made of gold-covered corduroy proving my theory that cats innately know how to present
themselves against the most flattering background they can find. While begrudgingly tolerated, she permitted herself
the luxury of a quick stroke along her spine. Weeks, then months passed and Molly’s security grew, evidenced by her
choice of the prime window ledge for sunbathing and her assertion as the dominant alpha leader of the pride at
meal time. Molly was in charge and that was that.
I knew for certain that Molly considered herself at home by several
distinct behavior changes: Without any urging or coercion, she began sleeping on my bed, stretching along the length
of my leg, turning as I did. Then she instigated more physical affection by bumping my chin or rubbing her
face against my cheek during cuddle time. Molly also started talking to me and it didn’t take long to understand
the subtle inflections and nuances of her voice. With a whisper, she conveys hunger, loneliness, contentment or displeasure.
A narrowing of those glorious eyes and a low, back-throated growl is potent enough to ward off the bounding
enthusiasm of an over-rambunctious Jack Russell terror. The quiet, steady rumble of her purr accompanied by the
lightest tap imaginable from a small front paw translates into an expression of affection, appreciation and even
sympathy.
Of even greater charm and delight, though, is how Molly treats the kittens
which frequent our impromptu animal shelter. All little ones are subject to her maternal, but no longer reproductive,
nature; each is played with furiously, chased and tumbled, but when Molly has had enough, she extends a long forepaw,
pins her miniature counterpart down and washes it into submission from tiny velvety nose to tip o’ tail. Purring
in tandem, the duo inevitably curl together for a well deserved catnap.
It’s been almost eight years since Molly was that
flash in the corner of my eye. She is now in her prime, healthy, beautiful, majestic and graceful. She remains aloof around
strangers and avoids confrontation, but does not hesitate to assert her independence and feline superiority. She loves
and is dearly loved in return; there’s nothing that can change her indomitable spirit. Through every family crisis or
emergency - a tornado, house fire, financial insecurity, an almost empty larder, she has remained a dependable
and loyal friend. Simply and clearly put, our Molly truly is unsinkable!
