|
Author: Mike Fak
The December winds blew hard and cold at the farm on top of the hill. The two kittens huddled against each other by the back door of the farmhouse. They were trying to catch a little of the heat escaping from the bottom of the door before it was mixed and lost forever with the cold. It was under these circumstances that the old man with the raspy voice first met the two kittens.
The old man, working at the farmhouse, came upon them as he arrived for work one
day. It was apparent that the male tabby, about 7 weeks old, had been through a
real scrape with something that he couldn’t handle at his young age. Cuts along
the face as well as ears showed a fight that had gone badly. The old man assumed
that an argument over territory with one of the older cats, living with the
horses, had led to the kitten being banished to the open harshness of the
winter.
The other kitten, a female oyster shell about three months old, seemed to have
taken on the responsibilities of helping the younger cat survive. The oyster cat
lay over the younger kitten, using its body in a feeble attempt to keep the
injured kitten warm in the 20 degree temperature.
The little yellow tabby, although badly beaten, was as outgoing as any cat the
old man had ever seen. Sitting down with the kittens on the back stairs, the
tabby immediately ran into the old man’s arms and starting purring. The oyster
kitten came closer to the old man, but laid next to his leg, seemingly
preferring attention be given to her injured ward.
The old man with the gravely voice fed the kittens a doughnut he had and watched
as the two gulped down the food. He knew he had to do something to help these
kittens or this winter would be their last. He found a cardboard box, and
placing it behind a sheet of plywood leaning against the house, laid his flannel
shirt in the box. Without any need of direction, the two kittens climbed into
the box and huddled together in the shirt, the older, oyster kitten again lying
on top of the tabby.
In the next few weeks, the old man and the two kittens became good friends. The
arrival of the red truck in the driveway each morning brought the two kittens
flying out of their box and climbing immediately into the front seat of the old
truck. On a paper plate waited a can of cat food that quickly was gobbled down
by the kittens.
The old man had named the kittens, since all good friends should be on a first
name basis. The little tabby, who was constantly wailing for attention, was
given the name Whalen. The oyster kitten looking like a Jackson Pollack painting
gone bad was named Jackson.
The old man was worried what would happen to the kittens when the job closed for
the Christmas holidays. He was afraid a week alone might be their undoing, and
was planning on coming back whenever he could regardless of the job site being
open for work.
Just before the holiday, the situation changed between the old man and the
kittens. Arriving one morning, only Whalen came running to the truck. The old
man looked everywhere, but Jackson was nowhere to be found. He had always
admired Jackson and the way she had decided to mother little Whalen. He thought
perhaps she had decided that only the barn, with its bales of hay, could save
her from the winter and had abandoned her little adopted child. “She toughed it
out as best she could." the old man decided.
He never went to the barn. He feared he wouldn’t find Jackson there, and that
meant she had met her demise in the harsh reality of a country winter.
The old man knew he couldn’t leave Whalen to fend for himself and knew a couple
who were thinking of getting a kitten. Bringing Whalen to town, the kitten and
the young couple really hit it off immediately and Whalen had a new home. The
old man was glad, but he often wondered and worried about what had happened to
Jackson.
The story was over until mid January when the old man, arriving for work, saw a
very thin Jackson come flying down the lane towards the truck. The kitten didn’t
even need the door opened for her as she came leaping through the window and
began nuzzling the old man. Again with only a doughnut, the old man rubbed the
kitten as she devoured the food in quick gulps.
The old man found out from one of the other workers that before Christmas,
Jackson had somehow ended up in one of the worker’s vans and had been
transported to Lincoln. Jackson, not as friendly with people she didn’t know,
had taken off when released from the truck and had begun a great Christmas
journey back to the cardboard box she knew as home.
It had taken nearly a month for the kitten to make the thirteen miles back to
that old box, but here she was with the man she considered her friend.
As the kitten curled up in a ball on the man’s lap, the man thought of what the
little kitten must have gone through. Thirteen miles in the cold snowy farmland
was a trek by itself. Where did she find food and shelter? How often did she
come close to being killed by a farm dog or a coyote during the travail? What
empowered her to face any and all dangers just to get back to a cardboard box
with an old flannel shirt stuffed inside it?
As the kitten slipped deep into sleep, the old man’s eyes welled up with tears
for the young cat. She had been through so much and all she ever asked for, all
she ever got was that old box behind a sheet of plywood.
Stroking the kitten’s head, the old man remarked to his friend how sorry he was
she had such a rough Christmas.
The old man and Jackson became very close in the next few weeks. Upon the man’s
arrival, Jackson would jump in the truck, eat a good meal, and then sleep the
day on the dashboard of the old truck as the distant sun gave off heat through
the windshield.
During breaks and lunch, the old man would sit in the truck and visit. Jackson,
getting stronger, started to act like a kitten for the first time in her young
hard life, and they had great times chasing string or a catnip toy that the old
man had bought her.
Always at the end of the day, the old man would take Jackson out of the truck
and place her in the box. Always Jackson would chase after the man, and follow
the truck down the road, as he left for another day. It was a hard time for the
old man as he looked in the mirror at the little cat trying to catch up to the
truck. He knew as the job was winding down that he couldn’t just leave his
little friend in that old cardboard box.
In mid February as the old man packed up his truck to leave the job for the last
time, he didn’t take Jackson off the dashboard. Instead he started the truck,
and told the little cat to get ready for a new adventure. Jackson now sitting on
the man’s shoulder bent over and licked his nose. It was her way of saying she
trusted him.
This Christmas Jackson doesn’t have a cardboard box for a home nor is she ever
hungry or cold. This Christmas, as she has for nearly three years, she will find
a good, warm night’s sleep in the folds of a blanket at the bottom of the old
man’s bed.
“Goodnight Jackson and Merry Christmas. I’ll see you in the morning."
Freelance writer, columnist and author, ex-Chicagoan, Mike
Fak currently resides in Central Illinois. He currently writes humor
columns for searchwarp and contributes more serious commentary twice a
week at www.problogs.com
Recently Mike turned down an offer to write out of the national
columnist pool for Gatehouse Media Inc. in order to concentrate fully
on his book manuscript clients. information regarding his services are
available at www.mikefak.com.
An
antholgy of Mike's humor and serious life experiences are available in
his latest book "Portions of a Life." Autographed copies can be ordered
through his website and the family oriented stories make a great
Christmas gift.
For those of you who wish to converse with
Mike but prefer not to be in a public comments section, you can contact
Mike at mefak@msn.com.
|
Print Version
Send To A Friend
Discuss Article
My-Blog
Related Articles
Search Articles
Stories Archive
Subscribe Newsletter
XML News Feed
Contact US
