Barn Cats
Poem - by Adele Gardner
Pumpkin patches generate power—
even more when guarded by an orange or black cat.
We two together have this figured out—
Norrie and I the perfect feline pair, black and orange,
in league since the day our humans dropped us off at the farm—
"Barn cats," they called us—but we were so much more.
We prowled in search of mice, protected grain
and corn, alerted humans to weather's change,
planted brisk kitty crops with digging toes,
each paw pad in the dirt with pinprick claws
blossoming into catmint, catnip, pussy willow,
bringing our human family funds and luck.
One day when the animal doctor came, she examined us too,
and declared my friend Norrie needed attention
for a knock on his side—an accident with a rake handle
while we played in the barn with the farm children.
Surgery cost more money than the family could spare,
especially for a cat. By candlelight, they discussed
the situation in low tones.
I nuzzled Norrie,
purring a reassurance I didn't feel, as my heart
knocked about my chest. What can a cat do? I felt
helpless, as I'd never felt before. Frantic with worry and fear.
At the same time, Norrie purred back to me, into my side,
a gentle melody, I'm all right, I'm all right,
with every wheezing breath. The catch of pain in his purr
told me otherwise.
Mom always said, “Be bold. Hope follows after,
using the same pawprints. Act brave
and bravery will come to you.” So I did exactly that.
While the family slept, I crept in the kitchen window—
nipping just a taste of the cherry pie—and ducked over
to the shelf of winter clothes. These wouldn't be missed so quickly,
and with any luck I'd put them back in time.
As I dressed under the moon, I grew:
my legs extending to fill these old work pants,
my spine stiffening with a crackle as I slipped
a shirt over a bulbous human head.
I looked at the weird starfish of human hands
and marveled they got any work done with such weak claws.
Then I hastened to the barn to collect my friend.
Norrie, who filled my life, now barely filled my arm
as I tucked him close into my shirt
and leapt lightly as a cat into the saddle
to ride for the doctor's surgery.
At midnight, it seems, few humans answer the door,
But I only had an hour or two—three at most,
while the moon rode high—before I changed back again.
I couldn't speak at first, but mutely showed
an exhausted Norrie, nose tucked into my side.
Fortunately, that doctor had a good eye
and recognized her charge. Gently she took the cat
from my human arms.
"Can you pay?" she asked me.
I shook my head.
"You seem to have a way
with animals. Would you like a job as my nurse?"
Mutely, I nodded. And that was that.
I held Norrie, before and after. Tended his recovery.
Took medicines the doctor had
to keep my human shape stable
while I repaid my debt. The doc was kind. From time to time
I wondered what our human family thought
about their two barn cats who'd run away
after the humans secretly discussed our worth
and whether they should drown Norrie
to end their misery.