Morgan Wheatly

I’ve never been a cat fan. I hate cats. And yet… I’m mourning… a cat.

Perhaps my dislike for cats stems from my allergic reaction to them. Perhaps it has to do with my distinct dislike for finding feline feces in flowerbeds. Or perhaps it’s genetic – my father hated cats, too. He always hated them from the time he was a boy right up through my formative years.

So imagine my surprise when I came home from college one day to find that my Dad had a cat of his very own. It was living in his barn; and the first time I saw it, he was sitting in a lawn chair, drinking a beer, and petting this cat in his lap. Was this the Twilight Zone?

Dad explained that this wasn’t really a cat. It was more of a chicken, he said, which didn’t make any more sense.

It seems that an old momma cat had chosen the barn behind our house at some point as the place to birth her litter of kittens. Soon after, the momma left and so did all the kittens except for “Kitty,” who chose to stay behind, hanging out with the chickens and eating nothing but chicken feed and the occasional mouse.

Dad soon gave her a proper name, Kitty Laverne, and she became a permanent resident at our house for the next couple of decades. It was several years before Dad broke down and started buying actual cat food for Kitty. But, even with the change in diet, she stayed true to her chicken roots and remained a loyal friend and, I think, defender of her feathered companions. Through the coldest winters, she stayed in the barn with no heat other than the light in the brooder on which she slept.

Over the years, it was common to see Kitty in my Dad’s lap as he sipped a beer and enjoyed the beauty and tranquility of his backyard oasis. Kitty didn’t have much use for the rest of us, although she would let us pet her occasionally. She was mostly interested in Dad, and she showed him the most affection.

Given all that, I think Dad’s death in 2006 probably affected Kitty in some way that we will never understand. She stayed on, guarding the chickens and doing her own thing, and she still never paid me much attention.

Unless, that is, I put on a pair of work boots, some blue jeans, and one of Dad’s blue work shirts to go work in the yard. And then, Kitty was all over me, getting in my lap, rubbing against my legs, and generally getting underfoot. I think she was looking for something familiar, and anytime I wore that outfit, the results were the same.

My brother got the same reaction when he wore Dad’s boots, and it was he who became Kitty’s primary caretaker, seeing to her health and wellness over the years.

As our kids grew and after my Mom’s passing, Kitty Laverne was a constant at our house, tying us to the past and something special from a time that we cannot recapture. Russell and I could spend time with Kitty, and in some strange way, we were spending time with Dad… or maybe just something connected to Dad.

Kitty developed a tolerance of children right away. She initially would shy away from kids, but she grew to enjoy their occasional petting although she never really wanted to play.

There were times that Kitty would disappear for days. We would begin to think she was lost or worse, and then she would show up… usually looking pretty rough and having been in a fight… sometimes for her very life apparently.

As the years went by, we began to joke that Kitty must have eaten the mouse from the movie The Green Mile. She seemed almost immortal this cat who thought she was a chicken.

Immortal perhaps… but not indestructible.

Last Thursday, one week before Thanksgiving, Kitty met her end. She was hit by a car or truck in the alley behind our neighbor’s house. She had just gotten over her latest injury and was doing what she loved… prowling around not far from the barn she called her home.

Kitty Laverne, as best we can figure, was about 22 or 23 years old. That’s like 107 for a human. That’s a remarkable achievement for an outdoor cat… or a chicken.

My kids and my nephews were very sad to see their sweet Kitty pass on. My brother especially and I were harder hit… losing a member of our family and a link to our Dad. And yet we believe she’s probably happy that she’s finally found that guy in the blue shirt she’s been looking for these past eight years.

This Thanksgiving we’ll say a prayer for the one cat that could ever call our house home, and we’ll give thanks for family and the memories that we all cherish for those who have gone on before us.

Rest in peace, Kitty. The barn will never be the same without you.