A Cat Tale

I was six the first time I hurt something I loved.

Growing up on a farm, my sister Valarie and I played with Barbies. But our best friends were chicks and calves, puppies and kittens.

Each had a name.

“Don’t treat the animals like toys,” Mom called to us while hanging wet laundry on a fraying white clothesline.

“We won’t, Mommy,” I answered, my arms full of six-week-old kittens.

A spring breeze carried the musky scent of cow droppings and freshly mown grass. Dresses, hung by their hems, flapped in the wind as though trying to fly away. Chickens pecked at the ground near my mother, contentedly clucking as they snacked on seeds and worms.

Valarie, who was five, struggled to contain her squirming kittens. Their soft ears and delicate tails poked through her fingers as they protested being held with loud, high-pitched mews.

Curly brown hair falling in her eyes, Val said, “They are so cute! They like us!” She kissed a calico one on its tiny wet nose.

As the sun warmed our faces, Val and I decided to seek the shade of our farmhouse back porch. Our cats usually napped there.

Padding across the yard in bare feet, we climbed two steps to the rickety addition.

The open porch was covered by a leaky roof. Weathered and rotting in places, the flooring was riddled with broken boards and knot holes that opened to the dusty ground below. Not a place for leisure, the porch collected unwanted items: a decrepit overstuffed chair, boxes of rags and outgrown clothing, broken toys, and my grandfather’s antique smoking table.

Standing on four carved wooden legs, the two-foot-high table’s surface was scarred by charred circles — a reminder that Grandpop frequently missed the ashtray.

A shoebox-sized cabinet sat under the top. Its brass-hooked latch opened a hinged door. Inside, Grandpop once stored tobacco, pipes, and cleaners.

The smoking table was now our play furniture.

Val and I carefully set the wriggling lot on the porch floor. Sniffing, crouching, and prowling, the kittens explored the crevices made by years of accumulated, discarded belongings.

Their mother, a red tabby, suddenly appeared, leaping soundlessly from the yard onto the flooring. She purred and lay down as her babies found their way over to her. Nuzzling for swollen nipples, they nursed thirstily.

Val and I picked up a kitten. Nipping at our fingers, they struggled to be free.

An idea popped into my head. “Let’s make them a house!” I said.

“How?” Val asked, frowning.

“Let’s make Grandpop’s table their playhouse,” I replied. I handed her the chocolate and caramel-colored tortoiseshell and pulled out a discarded blouse from one of the boxes.

A hint of cherry tobacco filled my nose as I opened the stand’s door. A perfect size for kittens.

After carefully rolling the rag, I laid it inside, creating a bed.

“Give me one,” I said, holding out my open hand. Val passed me her blue-eyed, black-and-white kitten. Its tail was spotted like polka dots. I stuffed it into the cabinet. It immediately jumped out, meowing loudly.

Scrunching my face, I said, “Maybe it’s lonely. Let’s put them both in there and they can play together.”

Val nodded.

We gave them each a kiss, lovingly brushing their soft fur against our cheeks, and packed them into the smoking stand. I shoved the door closed.

A shrill shriek shattered the air. Looking at the door, I saw a trapped tail — and then its tip dropped to the floor.

Val’s eyes opened wide in horror. I shivered. With shaking hands, I quickly opened the door.

The two kittens jumped out, screaming.

The black and white one was missing nearly half its tail.

Their mother leaped up, shaking her nursing charges off her belly as she ran over to her frightened babies. She licked the wounded kitten.

Then, one by one, she carried them by the neck into the dark, dirt space under the porch floor.

My throat tightened. We searched for the injured baby, but the mother hid it beyond our reach.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out.

Val hugged me. “We can’t tell Mommy,” she said.

We vowed to keep it between us.

Later that night, Dad came home from working in the fields.

Pulling off his dusty ball cap, he kissed Mom and said, “I’m going to take a shower.” She nodded.

Then he paused. “Did something get to one of the kittens?”

Mom shrugged her shoulders. “Not that I know of,” she replied. “Why?”

“One of them is missing the tip of its tail,” he replied.

Val and I, now safely playing with Barbies, listened. And didn’t say a word.

A few days later, Mom mused aloud about how the unfortunate kitten may have lost its tail.

Bursting with shame, I confessed. “It was my fault. Punish me!”

My mother turned from the kitchen sink, her gaze soft. She knew.

She said quietly, “I think you’ve already learned your lesson.” And then turned away.

That night, lying on a tear-stained pillow, a stuffed pink elephant wrapped tightly in my arms, I felt the weight of my guilt.

What I didn’t know then was that it would not be the last time.

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I write stories about life’s detours — and how we navigate them.

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Check out other stories: The All-American – about aging and seeing people or In a Pickle – about being passed by a dog, and beaten by a pickle, but still winding up in the winner’s circle.