"Listening to The Higsons one night in November...and I thought I heard them singing..."
Next Tuesday marks one year since the little old man who lived with us passed away, and not a day goes by that we don't think about him, talk about him and wish he was still here with us. Yes, we were fortunate to have him in our lives for as long as we did, but those 19 ½ years went by so quickly.
He was born in the autumn of 1986 to a semi-feral mother in my parent's barn. He had a brother who looked the opposite of him: where he was black with a white bib, feet and belly, his brother was a cream color with a black mask, ears, feet and tail. The first time I saw the kittens playing in the barn I fell in love with them both, but they were skittish and dashed away to some elusive hiding place whenever anyone entered the barn.
Everyone agreed that the creamy furball was the cutest of the pair and we set about trying to catch him on numerous occasions, but he was full of fire and tore up anyone having the misfortune to grab hold of him. Dad and my brother once tried to catch him by wearing heavy-duty suede landscaping gloves and thick coveralls, but the little hell raiser bit right through all those layers and sent my brother to the Urgent Care for stitches.
I gave up on the idea of domesticating either of the kittens at that point, but luckily my Mom didn't and unbeknownst to me continued to work on gaining the trust of the kittens. Any Appalachian mother knows that the way to a person's heart is through their stomach, so she applied the theory to the animal world and sought to feed them away from their mother and the other barn cats. The little cream hellcat wouldn't touch the food, but the black and white fluffball was agreeable and soon was dining on sumptuous chicken, leftover meatloaf and sausage gravy. Over time he began to seek out my Mom to get "the good stuff," and Mom began moving his meal a little closer to the house each day. She always left him alone when he was eating, and soon he was no longer afraid. He trusted her enough that before too long she had coaxed him inside the house, always letting him return to the outdoors when he was finished with his meal.
Then came the day he was not allowed back outside! Of course he didn't like it, and let his displeasure be known by dashing into the basement to hide. No amount of delicious smelling food could entice him out of his hiding spot. It's a wonder that he didn't take the initiative and race out the door whenever it opened, but he opted instead to remain firmly ensconced under the stairway in the basement, hiding among the dusty bottles of home made wine and canned tomatoes.
The little black powder puff with big eyes was presented to me on Christmas Eve, 1986. He didn't struggle when I held him for a cuddle, and he didn't run away when I placed him on the living room carpet and had my picture taken with him. He was more interested in the crinkly paper, gaily coloured ribbon and piles of boxes that littered the floor after the gifting melee. Realizing that he wanted to play, I dragged the ribbon along the carpet and he pounced over and over, making us all laugh with delight. One might assume that his spirit had been broken and he had been "tamed," but although he allowed himself to be domesticated, he remained a highly spirited, proud and demanding cat until the day he died.
My parents had thoughtfully picked up some kitty supplies they knew I would need: a little plastic food and water dish combo, a small kitty litter box, a week's supply of canned food, a bag of kibble and a bag of kitty litter. Mom had even made a bed for him and decorated it with pictures of cats. I placed the little black kitten into the box with his goodies and carried him to my house, several houses away.
No sooner had I plucked him from the box and placed him gently down in his new home than he raced behind the Christmas tree in the corner of the lounge and took a wet, messy dump all over the tree skirt. It was a total loss. He sat and watched with tilted head as I bagged it up and carried it outside to the garbage, looking on as I placed his new litter box in the laundry room and poured in the litter. Although he was obviously curious, he hung back as if unsure about the new development. I picked him up and placed him into the litter box and I could see the little kitty light bulb crackling to life in his head. He scratched around in the box for a few seconds, and got down to business. If only potty training children was as easy!
I fretted a lot about what to name him. He had to have a special name, not a regular cat name like Morris or Felix or (heaven forbid) Garfield. My good friend and fellow Fleetwood Mac fanatic Craig implored me to name my "first born" after our beloved coke-addled songstress Stevie Nicks, and since I couldn't bring myself to call him Stevie, I named him Nick. A sleepless night later I added to his name.
I had put him in the garage the first night after he came to live with me because I wasn't sure he should be unsupervised in the house overnight (I wasn't yet convinced that he was litter trained, afterall), and I knew he couldn't get into much trouble in the garage, plus I'd placed his bed out there, thinking that he'd like the garage since it would remind him of the barn. But he cried so loudly that he could be heard despite the barriers of a garage door, the kitchen and hallway, my closed bedroom door and a pillow over my ears. He yowled and cried and scratched at the door with such desperation that I was forced to lie in bed listening to him, and pretty soon one of my favorite Robyn Hitchcock songs was playing endlessly in my head. I took it as a sign and added Higson to his name.
Higson Nick never spent another night in the garage.
