Silky Fur

      The outdoors was something I could count on when I was younger. I loved the hot sun on my face and the juiciness of a ripe tomato dripping down my chin. I loved knowing that a catbird lived in the three blue spruce trees that graced our front yard in Wisconsin, and even though I didn’t believe it was really a catbird, I couldn’t prove there was a cat somewhere that belonged to that sound.

     I loved cats. Shy, gentle, quiet, slow to trust, independent, fearful of loud noises and quick moves—a ball of silky fur purring at the end of my bed. Cats slept with me, purred on my neck, warmed my toes, tickled me with their fur, and bonded with me whether I was playing outside at Grandma’s farm or running away from my brothers when they wouldn’t play with me.

     I spent hours in the driveway with the farm cats near the barn where the milk cows were kept. When Grandpa was ready to begin milking, he squatted onto the three-legged stool, pulled the first squeeze and squirted warm milk at the cats, straight into their waiting faces. They looked like they were happily licking frosting off a birthday cake.