MISS KITTY

She was just a kitten when we got her, a small scruffy-looking barn cat from the farm down the road but we loved her. We called her Miss Kitty and she grew into a beautiful gray tabby with deep green eyes. She was gentle, soft-spoken and good-natured. She let my sisters and I dress her in a baby bonnet and nightshirt when we played with our dolls and gave tea parties. Sometimes we held her like a baby cradled in our arms and as she lay on her back we fed her milk from a little plastic bottle. Other times we rocked her in a cradle or pushed her around in a doll carriage.

In the mornings she went with my father to the kitchen, watched him light the fire in the wood stove, and waited patiently for the treats he shared as he cooked breakfast. At lunchtime when my mother went to get water, she followed her across the yard and down the path to the well. She sat outside on the step in late afternoon, waiting for us to come home from school. Then she walked down the driveway to meet us, brushed against our legs, and asked to be picked up and cuddled. At night she lay curled on the bed between my sister and I, purring throaty lullabies as we drifted off to sleep.



It snowed early that Fall. There was already a foot of it on the ground that Sunday in mid-October when the hunters arrived. Some came from town. Some from Southern Ontario. Others from as far away as Ohio and New York. Some were relatives and others were friends my father had acquired when he worked as a guide at nearby fishing lodges and tourist resorts. They were truckers and farmers, doctors and lawyers, janitors and cooks. They had strange names like Turk and Big Stan and Frenchie. They returned each year, and for two weeks they lived in the garage we'd made into a hunt camp. It was a way for our family to make extra money. My father took them hunting. My mother packed their lunches and in the evening served them supper in our kitchen. It also gave us meat for the Winter because whatever was shot was divided equally among all members of the group.

The men drank, smoked cigars, laughed, and told stories long into the night. My father often joined them, taking part in the comradery, reminiscing and telling jokes, recounting and embellishing his own adventures about camping, fishing, and hunting. He loved the outdoors but had learned at an early age to respect the ways of Nature and he always reminded the men to be careful in the woods.

When my sisters and I got up on Monday morning the hunters were already gone. My father had them up before daybreak. He'd made them breakfast, got them organized and taken them out for the day's hunt. My brother Reg had stayed behind to wait with us until we were safely on the school bus. He would join them later, bring sandwiches and coffee, take the lunches my mother had packed.

As we bounced along the back roads and made our way toward town, we waved to the men we saw standing in the cold, under the trees, waiting on the runways. Not only were they looking for deer and moose, they were now hunting fox - a rabid fox. It had been roaming the neighborhood for the past week - circled the field at the Leighton farm trying to get close to a group of young calves feeding near the barn - tried to catch one of Jack Russell's horses - bit two of Mr. Minor's cows and his dog before the dog chased it away - played at the edge of our property on Saturday afternoon. My brother shot several rounds at it but missed. It was too far away. After supper we locked our beagle in it's kennel and nailed a potato sack over the opening. Later that night the fox returned. Driven by the scent of the animal inside, it tore at the cloth, scratched the boards, and wore a path around the kennel looking for a way in. Luckily it never found one, and our dog wasn't hurt, only scared.

News travels quickly in a small town. When we got to school many of the kids already knew what had happened at our house over the weekend. They just wanted to see if they'd missed any of the details. By the end of the morning I had repeated things so often we were all ready to move on to something else. After lunch it began to snow again. By the time we got on the bus, it hung heavy on the trees like a bad mood. The roads were slick, the ride subdued, and I was glad when we finally arrived at our gate.

As I stepped down onto the road and started up the driveway I noticed my father standing at the corner of the house. Then something else caught my eye so I stopped and looked to the right. That's when I saw Miss Kitty sitting on the top of the hydro pole. She was hunched over with her eyes closed and her body was puffed out and capped with snow.

“Miss Kitty,” I called to her.

“You girls go in the house!” my father ordered.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“Don't ask questions! Just go inside!”

We could tell by his voice that he meant business, so we did as we were told.

“Mom, what's going on?” I asked, taking off my schoolbag and dropping it onto the floor. Before she could answer, there was a gunshot. I turned, yanked the door open and ran outside. There, lying in the snow near the foot of the pole was Miss Kitty!

“No,” I screamed as tears ran down my face. For a few minutes I just stood there shaking my head and crying. Then I stumbled back into the house, made my way to the bedroom, and threw myself onto the bed. I was still sobbing into the pillow when my mother came in and sat down beside me awhile later.

“Your father had no choice,” she said. He had to shoot her.”

“But why?” I demanded.

“This afternoon I needed more wood for the stove. When I opened the inside door the fox was on the veranda. I could tell it was sick. It's fur was matted and it's eyes were glassy. It was slobbering, biting at things and acting silly, like it was stupid. While I stood there, Miss Kitty came running out of nowhere, pushed the screen door open, and got out. The fox went at her.”

My mother swallowed hard and bit back her tears. “I grabbed the broom, it was the closest thing, and took a swing at the fox. I knocked it down the steps. Miss Kitty got away and climbed up the pole. The fox disappeared. Your father got home just a few minutes before you did. It was the only thing he could do for her,” she finished.



Altogether twenty-three bullets were fired at the fox before it was finally shot and killed Wednesday morning on the road at the top of the hill just two hundred yards past our gate. Every time I thought about Miss Kitty in the weeks that followed, I was angry. She didn't deserve to die - especially like that! I realized my mother put herself at risk that afternoon. I also knew my father loved Miss Kitty but the safety of our family came first. That was over forty years ago. Tears still come to my eyes when I think about it.