Cats Know Stuff.

I live with six cats and see others who use the barn at their leisure.

As any cat lover will tell you, Cats know us better than bank managers at trying to sense our station in life. They know more than the vicar, hairdresser, therapist, or lover.

Cats around my barn come, and sometimes they go, sometimes stay, and one or two spend their time haunting the house in the middle of the night. If I need a clairvoyant, I can’t do better than speak to a cat. Seriously, cats know about reincarnation; doing it nine times over, they see in the dark and stalk headless apparitions from room to room.

Take Balance, so-called because of her uncanny ability to walk on a fence half an inch wide. Balance is the cat most often leaving. I don’t know where she goes or why. She just goes. She’s also the cat who comes home more than any other. I should have called her Hussy.

All my cats have solid personalities and weird traits and act as deliberate felines. I’ve learned nothing a cat does is happenchance, which brings me to mention Astral. When naming cats, I look around, believing that something I see will strike a chord and becomes the cat’s name. That night, when Astral stopped by, the skies were clear, and star filled. Now, listen, here’s a bloody rascal of a cat, I tell you.

I always suspected Astral was in transit the first time she stopped by, moving from barn to barn until she found my hotel, with breakfast included.

For several months, Astral appeared to like the place. While I didn’t know at the time, it became apparent that she was looking for a place to die. Three months after she came, Astral did move on one final time. During her visits, she showed me a better part of myself. Perhaps she’d only used eight chances at reincarnation, so I continue to hope she may well reappear in summer.

Squeak, yes, I was walking the wheelbarrow when I first saw her, is too old to be bothered by fat Toms in the neighborhood, ready to show her displeasure should they try. But, Reckless, my oldest sheepdog sees her as an old friend to be cared for on wintry nights, snuggling her into his chest in front of the fire. I sit in my rocker; I don’t know why but seeing them that way brings tears to my eyes.

Peter, having stayed around twelve years, was never the friendliest cat, just the one I spoke to most. Peter, at one time or another, showed himself to be a prophet. He played if it pleased him to do so, preened if it didn’t. When he was a kitten, I found Peter and still bear the scrapes and scratches of getting to know him. Peter wasn’t the kind of cat to make you feel calm or settled. I’ll come back to him.

Quasimodo isn’t a hunchback but has only one eye. He takes every opportunity to curl up in my lap and purr himself to sleep. Quasi is the worst mouser. I mean terrible. If he does manage to catch one, the damn thing squeals; Quasimodo makes a belt for home mouse forgotten. Ridiculous when you learn that Quasi is a giant cat, a Maine Coon weighing in at over thirty pounds. Quasi is the house Monarch.

Cooking Fat wasn’t so-called initially. Jenny insisted I swap the first letters of his name around. In case he got lost, she said. Cooking Fat is the cat most under our feet. CF doesn’t enjoy cat food, is too lazy to catch anything else, and rubs up against our legs when we’re eating. There’s a rule that she doesn’t get human food in the house, so she will deliberately get under your feet when not receiving a morsel. The house rule is bent to hell.

One day a new cat turned up at the farm. I was on the back deck listening to music. Bette Midler was singing Wind Beneath My wings, so I called him Fart. I don’t know; it made sense to me at the time. Fart is either the bravest cat I ever saw or the dumbest. He thinks nothing of wandering into the horse stall as if hooves were cotton wool balls. He’ll misjudge his step, and a Fart he will be.

I’ll come back to Peter. The only cat Peter had any time for was Sarah. Yes, I happened to be drinking wine from Sarah’s Vinyard. I didn’t think Peter would take himself off to die. I would have bolted the doors. I found him hidden behind the old barn, having snuck behind the water tank. I brought his lifeless body home and buried him far away from other cats past laid to rest, Paco, Fancy, Cilla, Smokey, and Louise. Each had managed to become a habit as comfortable as any well-loved child or a piece of furniture. Peter must have known how much I cared for him, being sure to lay down where he knew I would find him.

You don’t choose a cat. A cat will come along and fancy you as one he or she can educate.

If I thought that cats were anything but deliberate, I’d bolt the door on Sarah, believing her next to die. After all, she’s given us a full eleven years of precious time. She’s entitled to be in the house now Peter has gone.

I fear for her heart.