The Cat Who Lives in the Garage

The kittens that were born under the house last spring have all grown and gone their separate ways but their mother, rather than return from wherever she came, has - regrettably - taken up residence in the garage. It's not the Ritz, not even a loving home, but it's dry and reasonably safe and since her occupancy, the mouse population is down considerably. Although it was against every rational instinct I had, compassion finally won out and each evening I leave her a dish of food and a bowl of fresh water.

She's just an ordinary gray and black striped cat, four white paws and big eyes, one of a dozen or so that roam the neighborhood and scavenge for survival in between breeding. She's shy, cautious, but not overtly unfriendly and she hasn't much fear of the dogs. I doubt she was born homeless - when I open the double doors, she gives me a brief and surprised look then moves gracefully into the shadows, but not more than a few feet away - she may sense that I present no threat but life has taught her to be wary. I wonder if she was left behind or just turned out, if she had a name or was ever loved. She's agile and looks to be healthy, free of any scars or injuries, a victim of being unwanted rather than outright abuse or neglect. It takes a cold and soulless heart to mistreat an animal and if it were up to me, no one who does it would live to do it a second time.

The small brown dog knows she's there and each time I let her out she races for the garage, eases between the double doors and starts searching. The cat watches from the work bench, silently assessing the threat, then deciding the danger is minimal, meows to give away her position. The little dog looks up, sees her, and begins to wiggle from nose to tail, anxiously whining and whimpering to be acknowledged, frantic to make a new friend and not understanding why the trespassing feline isn't equally as willing. The cat, true to her nature, pretends not to notice.

When I came back to the south for the last time, I came alone except for my black cat and we lived in a friend's garage while waiting for the house in New England to sell and for my husband and other animals to join us. The floors were rough, cold concrete - we slept together on a lumpy cot and lived out of cardboard boxes and suitcases,

eating at a different fast food restaurant each night and waiting for time to pass. It felt - although it wasn't - like poverty.

The cat who lives in the garage has not sacrificed her dignity or independence and as we live in a reasonably mild climate, chances are that she will survive and live to breed again. Some things are inevitable but I still damn the cruelty and stupidity that brought her to me.