A MOMENT OF GRACE, © Phil Ward, 2109

It seemed like every spring a mama cat would find a snug place in Granddads barn and deposit a litter of kittens. These mamas were of the mostly wild (feral) variety and often stayed just long enough to wean and train their offspring. Usually by early summer they and their broods disappeared into the world of farm fields and mice, until winter weather made living in proximity to people more tolerable. That changed when Granddad took to feeding them on a regular basis. Then generations of cats would literally line up at the back porch every morning waiting for him to come out of the house, pull on his boots, and head to the barn to feed the livestock, and them.

Truth is Granddad liked having those cats around. They kept the mice at manageable levels in the barn and could be pretty friendly while waiting for breakfast. It made quite a picture to see him in his canvas barn coat, rubber boots and floppy red hat, trudging down the lane at feeding time with a half dozen or more cats trailing close behind—a genuine pied piper with his own group of dedicated supplicants.

The key to domesticating a feral cat is to capture and gentle it young enough so that it hasn’t fully developed that innate fear of people, and isn’t yet strong enough to punish you severely with its teeth and claws. This particular spring our sons, Peter, and Patrick, probably around 10 and 8 years of age, along with Ricky, a neighbor boy, decided to capture and domesticate some cats. They had been keeping an eye on a new litter in Granddads barn, waiting for the kittens to be old enough to get along without their mama. After consulting Granddad and no doubt getting some pointers on cat capturing, they decided it was time. Early Saturday morning they appropriated several large grocery sacks from the pantry, and hopped their bikes for the half-mile ride down to the farm, stopping to collect Ricky along the way.

The boys made it back to our house a couple hours later. They had straw sticking out of their clothes every which way and a few scratches on their hands and arms, but they were grinning from ear to ear. Each was holding a squirming paper sack containing a kitten, which they proudly unveiled one by one. Peter had selected a tawny shorthair with big green eyes. Patrick clutched a powder gray with long hair and a white chest. Ricky had picked a kitten similar to Patricks’ except it was black with four white feet. We admired each one in turn and and nodded along as the boys excitedly recounted the story of the hunt and capture. After they finished Ricky returned his cat to its sack and headed home, anxious to show his own family.

It wasn’t long before we noticed our youngest, 6 year old Prisha, crying quietly in a corner of the family room. “What’s wrong Honey?” her mom asked. “I wanted a kitty too,” she blurted out, bursting into full scale weeping. “I wanted a kitty too”.

“Oh no,” I thought. “Were there any others,” I asked Peter. “Yeah,” he answered, “but the mama cat was hiding them as we left. I don’t think we can find them again”.

A few seconds passed, then Peter took a deep breath, held out his kitten to his sister and said: “Here, you can have mine.”

Shaking her head she replied tearfully: “I don’t want yours, I wanted the one with the white feet. I wanted the one with socks.”

Now here was a problem because “Socks” had just departed with Ricky, destined to join another family. Prisha, in heartbreaking 6 year-old fashion, continued to weep quietly in the corner completely unresponsive to our efforts to console her.

It was some time before we noticed Peter was gone. Prisha had quit crying by then and was sitting on the porch next to Patrick, petting his kitten now named Shadow. She looked up with the rest of us to see Peter pedaling into the driveway. He had his cat sack in hand. Wordlessly he dropped his bike to the ground, walked up to his little sister and handed her the sack. “Here” he said solemnly.

Taking the sack carefully she held it in her lap and opened it, peering inside. “Socks!” she exclaimed with delight, reaching in to pull out a squirming black and white fluff ball. “Socks,” she repeated looking quizzically up at her brother. “She’s yours,” he said. “I traded Ricky.”

“Oh,” she replied wonderingly, returning her gaze to the kitten.

Socks and Shadow soon became indispensable family members. They were friendly, responsive cats that even came when you called them (occasionally). But to me the most significant event of that day was not about cats. It was about watching a boy exchange his interests for those of his little sister.

That was a moment of grace.