BALTHY
After my father retired from the Air Force he bought
a small farm in Central Texas, where he could slow down,
enjoy nature, breathe the fresh air, and maybe raise a few
head of cattle. I remember being impressed that he would
make such a change in his life style. Frankly, he didn't
have much experience with big animals, but as always, he
had an adventuresome spirit and the will to succeed. Even
though economic reality turned his attentions
away from livestock back to his vegetable garden,
when asked if he had any farm animals, he answered with a
smile, "well, I do have a small herd of white-faced kitties."
I come from a long line of kitty ranchers, and I suppose this
will always be so.
We have always had at least one cat and although there
have been some "Tommy's", most of my cats had rather ridiculous
or overly important names. There were names so strange and
changeable that I had to think hard to remember what I called
them at the vet. Who could really admit to having a cat
named Generalisimo Salvador Dolly, especially if he was the
most undignified and passive example of a "puddy tat"?
I told them his name was Dallie. But even that seemed strange
for such a big, fat, silly Siamese. I had a black cat named
Moyd, when I was in college. When asked about the spelling
of his name, I would usually answer that he wouldn't tell
me.
We moved a lot like all military families, and all
through the many homes of my childhood came various cats
some deliberately obtained, and strays, who were always
looked upon as volunteers, brave and needed. It was hard to
move the family and the household across the country with
the cats as well, but also hard to leave them behind even
with the good people we found for them. Sometimes we
swore to have no cats in our new home, but always there were cats
for us.
While teenagers in Boston, my brother and I came
upon a fluffy part Persian with extra toes in a pet store. She
obviously needed rescue, so we brought her with us on the
subway, and the bus, into our hectic home. This did not
help her shy and quiet nature much, and she seemed happy
to have us hide her, our own furry secret, in my room under
my bed (the cat box in my closet)! We kept her that way
for 2 weeks, only to find my parents knew from the first.
They wanted to see how far we'd go, so they played along. We
were so serious about her, we gave her a normal name:
"Mittens." In our next move we got a beautiful Siamese kitten
I named "Chic-a-si," who set the standard in the weird name
department and also became the mother of "Zelmo" and
"Constantine."
Though there were many cats and a lot of changes in the
times and the people of my family, we have all moved
on and prospered. Here I sit today, a middle aged woman
with a family and a household of my own, not a small part of
it being my 7 inside cats who entertain and exasperate me
every day. My days are pretty much the same as they have
always been; I guess I've never felt fully dressed without a light
dusting of cat hair on my blouse. And now our cat family
extends itself with our "outside" kitties. We've two
young cats from the woods in back of our new house. One
is sleek and black, and the other is a "tuxedo" cat with
white tie and tail. My black friend I've named "Balthazar."
It seemed a fittingly wild and mysterious moniker. His
litter mate we call "Balthy's Brother," or "Bartholomew."
We don't really know their history, but I suspect them of
being sons of a black mother cat we saw briefly when we
first moved into our new house in late Spring. She stopped
coming up on the back deck when the pool was being put in
and the various workmen were about the house. By the time we
saw the kittens, it was very late in the summer and they
would only tentatively come in the back yard, playing in the
distance while we swam. I called them, and fed them, until one
day they found the nerve to come up on the deck to eat. Later, they
came closer to the door way. Then, because it was my habit
to talk to them while they ate, Balthazar didn't notice me
putting my hand out to touch him while I talked, so I did.
Soon I could pet him, and now he comes to me and allows
some lap setting and in turn rubs his face on my legs as if
to say it is a fine thing to have a person for a friend.
Months later, Bartholomew remains aloof and quite formal
(must be the tux), but Balthazar and I have found a special
affection together. We listen to the birds sing, and
watch the sun go down into the hills in the distance
from our lawn chair. It has been a long year, but
listening to his rumbling purr, we share this moment
together, time passing in an uncomplicated and wholly
pleasing way.
Cats are direct and unassuming. They are hungry
and they must eat. They are loved and so they love.
They have no separate agenda or cluttered rationale.
They simply are. So I sit with my hand on my new cat
and we are that simply real together. I need to decide
if Balthazar and his brother belong to someone else
without 7 other cats to care for, or if they can convert
to being inside kitties. It seems a shame to let cats
with names like theirs off into the world unprotected.
It's a difficult choice...the kind best left up to a
true cat rancher.