Feline: Beware
Terry hates cats.
I knew that. I've always known that. When my nephew Anthony came home from school in tears to find his cat, Tigger, MIA? I knew where Tigger went. I knew about the tabby fur in the back of the car. There was motive: the scratch marks in the paint all over the hood of the car? The paw prints on the windshield? Tigger loved to sit on the hood of Terry's car, in the sun, and let his tail swish back and forth.
And Tigger loved to eat birds.
My stepfather Terry is the biggest lover of birds I've ever met. He loves everything about them, and he encourages them to flock to his yard by spending countless hours, sweating to death in the hot sun, putting wooden poles in the ground to support his endless supply of feeders and bird houses.
And from day one, Tigger made one feeder in particular a living death trap.
He had to go.
I knew Terry didn't kill Tigger; Terry is a Chrisitan man. I knew he took him up he road to the Morning Star Baptist Church, by the cemetery, and let him go. Tigger never did find his way back home. Anthony got over him.
And life moved on.
Last week, a patch of tabby fur appeared on Terry's car. A new cat had planted himself there. Terry wasted no time: a trap was baited, set, and he waited. And waited.
And darn if he catch that tabby cat this morning.
THE CAT WAS ADORABLE! His cry for help broke my heart. He wanted out, and I wanted to keep him.
But Terry wouldn't have any of that.
I rode with him up to Morning Star Baptist Church. He opened the door on the trap and that cat took off, jumping the ditch and heading off into the woods. And we headed home.
And now I'm wondering why life around here has to be so rough.
I knew that. I've always known that. When my nephew Anthony came home from school in tears to find his cat, Tigger, MIA? I knew where Tigger went. I knew about the tabby fur in the back of the car. There was motive: the scratch marks in the paint all over the hood of the car? The paw prints on the windshield? Tigger loved to sit on the hood of Terry's car, in the sun, and let his tail swish back and forth.
And Tigger loved to eat birds.
My stepfather Terry is the biggest lover of birds I've ever met. He loves everything about them, and he encourages them to flock to his yard by spending countless hours, sweating to death in the hot sun, putting wooden poles in the ground to support his endless supply of feeders and bird houses.
And from day one, Tigger made one feeder in particular a living death trap.
He had to go.
I knew Terry didn't kill Tigger; Terry is a Chrisitan man. I knew he took him up he road to the Morning Star Baptist Church, by the cemetery, and let him go. Tigger never did find his way back home. Anthony got over him.
And life moved on.
Last week, a patch of tabby fur appeared on Terry's car. A new cat had planted himself there. Terry wasted no time: a trap was baited, set, and he waited. And waited.
And darn if he catch that tabby cat this morning.
THE CAT WAS ADORABLE! His cry for help broke my heart. He wanted out, and I wanted to keep him.
But Terry wouldn't have any of that.
I rode with him up to Morning Star Baptist Church. He opened the door on the trap and that cat took off, jumping the ditch and heading off into the woods. And we headed home.
And now I'm wondering why life around here has to be so rough.