The White Cat of Samara Hill

My father, despite being a “man's man” in outward appearances, was very much a gentle soul.  He was the type of guy who never squashed a spider. He caught it in a napkin and released it outside. He did the same with mice, and hated it when he accidentally hit a garter snake with the riding lawn mower (Mom, an animal lover in her own right, was far less empathetic in this case).

He also loved cats. We had cats in the house, at least two or three at a time, until I was twelve years old. They were indoor/outdoor cats, and as it happens in the country, indoor/outdoor cats eventually come to a bad end. Either they get hit by a car, or their hunting instinct takes hold and they embark on a long term safari they never return from.

Dad felt terrible every time we lost a cat.  He didn't show it much, but I could tell, because those cats were like a second brood of children to him. Mom liked the cats okay but could take them or leave them. I liked them too – especially when they slept on my bed at night, because it made me feel special, as if they'd “chosen” me for this honor – but I was a kid, and there were lots of things I took for granted back then, our pets being only one of them.

Dad loved his cats, for sure. But when your cats roam the countryside, losing them to the eventual dangers which lurk outside your door is inevitable. Much as he hated it when that happened, he accepted that.

Until the one year we lost all three of our cats the week of Halloween, when I was twelve years old.

*

The first causality was a five year old tabby cat named, appropriately, Tigger. Mom and Dad found him Saturday evening, a week before Halloween. Lying in the ditch not far from home, on their way back from their Saturday night walk, which they took every week until it got too cold. Tigger was mangled and torn. Though Dad thought maybe Tigger had been hit, Mom thought it looked like some kind of animal had gotten him.

They didn't talk about it much in front of me. Though I knew Dad probably felt bad about it, Tigger wasn't really one of my favorite cats. He never slept on my bed; was a lean, aggressive hunter, wasn't very affectionate and acted pretty aloof to everyone except Dad. I honestly didn't feel much at his passing.

However, I do remember overhearing Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen while I was in the living room, playing my allotted thirty minutes of Atari before bedtime. They couldn't get over how Dad had seen Tigger prowling around the garage only a half hour before he and Mom had taken their walk. Neither of them had seen a car drive by, so an animal must've gotten Tigger. But what kind of animal would be out hunting before dark fell, and what could've gotten Tigger so badly?

As kids, we were often oblivious to our parents' moods. I'll admit to it. I lived in a kid's world, concerned mostly with kid things. I vaguely thought it was sad that a wild animal killed Tigger, but as I've already mentioned, he wasn't one of my favorite cats, so I didn't feel anything more than the distant sort of regret one feels when a pet dies. That night, if my parents felt anything worse, I didn't notice.

Two nights later, however, on Monday night, I did notice the worried look on Dad's face when he entered the garage while I shot baskets at the hoop mounted above the garage doors. As a general rule he never looked worried, so the expression looked out of place on him. I grabbed the rebound of my most recent missed jump-shot (I liked to shoot baskets to waste time, and I guess I wasn't all that bad, but I never had any illusions of getting any playing time on All Saint's Varsity someday), and went into the garage.

He stood in the back, at his tool chest, rummaging through tools aimlessly. He'd spent the last few weeks building a new wood shed to keep our stove wood dry during the winter, and I figured he was looking for a tool. “Hey Dad. Everything okay?”

He flashed me a weak smile over his shoulder. “Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just...Hey.” He stopped looking through his tool chest and folded his arms. “You seen Smokey today?”

I remember feeling, very clearly, a strange sense of panic. Tigger had just died two days before, killed by something with claws and teeth. I hadn't really cared for Tigger either way; he'd been far too independent a cat for me to bond with, and cats of ours had died before.

Smokey was another matter altogether. A long-haired gray Persian who was affectionate and loved to sit in laps, Smokey regularly settled down for the night at the foot of my bed and curled into a big, puffy gray ball while I read.

I liked Smokey. A lot. I'm not sure if loved is the correct word, but I'd certainly formed a strong connection with her. I'd never said it aloud, but I definitely thought of her as my cat.

Also, Smokey mostly remained inside. She'd occasionally venture onto the front porch or the back deck in the summer to lounge in the sun, but that was it.

“No,” I said, frowning, tossing the basketball back and forth in my hands, suddenly nervous. “I really haven't been looking for her, though. I usually see her at bedtime.”

Dad looked worried and distant. “I saw her this morning before leaving for work. She was trying to get out, actually. Nosing at the front door, which is odd. She doesn't usually want to go outside this time of year.”

“Yeah. Only when it's really hot out, when she can lay in the sun.”

Dad nodded. “I shooed her away...but she was pretty insistent. I think, if I wasn't paying attention, she would've tried to sneak by me.”

“Did Mom let her out?”

Dad shook his head, his gaze sharpening, as if he'd seen something over my shoulder. “She said no, but also said the same thing. Seemed like Smokey wanted to get outside. In fact, it bothered her so much, she wouldn't let her out. Didn't like the way she was scratching at the door.”

That weird panic turned cold in my stomach. “Scratching the door? She never does that.”

“I know. Not sure...”

Dad straightened, gaze focusing on something over my shoulder, maybe across the road. I turned quickly, thinking maybe it was Smokey. She never crossed the road, ever, but maybe for some reason she had, and Dad had seen her.

I turned. There, sitting on the opposite side of the road, tail curled around its feet, looking completely at home and at ease, was a fairly big, short-haired white cat. A stray, I'd assumed at the time.

But even then, something about that cat bothered me. Like I said, it sat there on the road's shoulder, gazing at our house, not a care in the world, no trace of that wary edginess you sometimes see in wild or stray cats. This cat didn't look scared, or lost. It looked right at home. Like it belonged there. Like it was...meant to be there.

I turned to mention this to Dad, wondering if one of our neighbors had gotten a new cat...

But he was gone. Apparently back to work on the wood shed. Though I thought for a moment it was odd that he'd left without saying anything, I didn't think any more about it. When I turned back to look for the white cat, it had vanished, also.

*

We never found any trace of Smokey.

*

I've always blamed myself for losing our last cat. Buster was a male calico stray we'd taken in three years before. We'd had him neutered, and he lived with us, domesticated – to a point. During the winters he didn't show any interest in going outside, but summer through fall he liked to ramble all over. He always brought back his kills, too – mice, birds, and one time, I swear to God, a bat. How he'd gotten high enough to snag bat, we never figured out.

It's funny how you come to trust the different personalities of your pets. Smokey never liked to go outside, so her wanting to get out so badly seemed strange. Buster, however, was always out, and on occasion he'd spend the whole night out, and wouldn't come back until the next day. He was a big bruiser of a cat who had lived much of his life, we believed, in the wild, so it never bothered us too much when he spent the night out.

His behavior proved the opposite of Smokey's, however. Thursday, two days after Smokey still hadn't come back and four days after we'd found Tigger dead, Buster could only be found cowering in my room, under my bed. We couldn't get him to come out with food or water. We eventually had to bring it to him, and put it under the bed.

At this point, Dad called Sheriff Beckmore, wondering if anyone else was experiencing similar problems. He wondered if there'd been reports of bobcat sightings, which does happen, occasionally. Said he felt foolish calling the police about one dead and one missing cat, tried to make a joke about him turning into a  “Nervous Nelly” in his old age, but I could tell he was worried.

Sheriff Beckmore said no one had called in any reports of missing pets. He assured Dad that, unfortunately, this sort of thing happened occasionally. We lived in the Adirondacks, after all. This didn't make Dad feel better, however. Even though I can't claim to have been the most observant child, by then I was noticing Dad seemed constantly bothered by something. His temper had gotten short, and he always looked preoccupied. Whenever we were outside, he especially kept glancing across the street, where we'd seen the white cat a few days before.

Anyway, it's my fault Buster got hit. I got mad at him, honestly. I still feel bad writing this. He'd been hiding under my bed when I'd gotten home from school, and right before I went to bed, I was down on my hands and knees, trying to get him to come out. Didn't matter how much I coaxed him, it wasn't happening. He just kept backing up under the bed, and at one point, started growling at me, in the back of his throat.

It was bound to happen, I suppose. I decided to try and reach for Buster. Maybe hook him with one hand, try and drag him out. To this day, I still don't why I was trying so hard to get him out, I don't know why I didn't just leave him there. I guess it bothered me, that such a fearless cat who loved to roam the countryside had turned into this fearful, cowering thing. It scared me, I guess, in a way I still can't explain.

Anyway, I lunged, one arm plunging under the bed. My fingers grazed Buster's fur, but couldn't take hold. He hissed and slashed me on the back of his hand with his front claws.

I yelped, pulled my arm out from under the bed, jumped up, shouted, “Stupid cat!” and I punched my bed. It must've shaken the mattress enough to scare him – or maybe Buster'd had enough at that point – and he shot out from under from under my bed, sped out of my room and down the hall. I heard him run quickly down the steps, and then, I heard it...

The front door opening.

Mom exclaiming, “Buster! What in the world...!”

I may've heard Dad shouting outside, I may not have. What I did hear was a vehicle squealing to a stop in front of our house. Realistically speaking, it would've been too far away for me to hear the sickening thump of Buster getting run over...

But I know heard it anyway.

By the time I got downstairs and outside, Mom was already coming back inside, hand over her mouth, eyes wide, looking pale. She tried to stop me, but I pushed past her easily, out onto the front porch. I didn't actually see what remained of Buster. I saw Jeb Hawkins – who ran his own garage for small-engine machines like lawnmowers and tractors and such – standing next to his truck, which he'd been backing out of Mark Gunnell's driveway. Apparently he'd been fixing Mr. Gunnell's John Deere rider, and being done, had backed out into the road to leave for home. He was talking to Dad, looking apologetic, and sad, even.

I didn't need to know anymore, or see anymore. Guilt burning inside, feeling like the worst scum imaginable – why hadn't I let Buster just stay there? - I turned away to go back inside...

A flash of white caught my eye.

I stopped.

Sitting there, on the opposite of the road, and staring – I swear to God, staring – at my Dad was the same white cat I'd seen the other day. I glanced at Dad, and saw that, while Jeb Hawkins continued to apologize profusely, Dad was staring back at it. My heart felt cold and heavy, as I saw what I knew to be fear in my father's eyes, as well as shame, and guilt.

Minutes later, Jeb finished apologizing, and was getting back into his truck. Dad turned, and glancing once to where the white cat had been – a place now vacant – he turned back toward me, head down, hands clenched into fists at his side.

Shame filled me, riding a fresh wave of guilt. It was my fault. If I had just left Buster alone, he'd still be alive. Hiding under my bed, scared out of his mind...but alive.

           

I tried to tell Dad this, blubbering as he mounted the front porch, “It's my fault, Dad, I scared Buster, and he ran, it's my fault...”

He stopped, grabbed my elbow, and looked at me with somber, gray eyes. “It's not your fault, son. It's mine. I'm just...paying for a mistake I made a long time ago, is all.”

He paused, casting a glance over his shoulder to where the white cat had been sitting. He let go of my elbow, clapped my shoulder, forced a smile and said, “C'mon. Off to bed. You don't need to see this.”

By “this,” of course, he meant cleaning up what was left of Buster. Part of me thought I did need to see it – as punishment – but the rest of me felt numb. I let him lead me back into the house, feeling like a traitor for leaving Buster alone under a cold October moon.

*

Saturday afternoon of Halloween, I decided not to go trick or treating that night. I'd been on the fence that year, anyway. Twelve might seem a little young to decide I was too old for trick or treating, but my friends – Mike Fitzgerald and Bill Ward (long before his ordination as Father) – weren't very interested that year, either. If they weren't going out on Halloween, I certainly wasn't planning to.

Which left me adrift during the day. I raked leaves and completed some other chores Dad had laid out for me, but eventually I ran out of things to do. I wandered into the kitchen, where Mom was making several apple pies. Dad was off on an errand somewhere; and even if he'd been around, I probably would've avoided him. A gray cloud had settled over him since Thursday. He'd moved and spoken like a man caught in a bad dream. For my part, I still felt guilty for my role in Buster's death, though I somehow knew Dad didn't blame me.

For some reason, he blamed himself.

It's not your fault.

It's mine.

I'm just...paying for a mistake I made a long time ago, is all.

“Hey, kiddo,” Mom said over her shoulder while putting the finishing touches on the crust of the last of the two apple pies, “how are you feeling, today?”

I shrugged and sat at the kitchen table. “Okay, I guess.” I didn't feel okay at all, of course. It's amazing how quickly boys somehow learn that repressing emotions makes us more manly.

She turned and wiped her hands, looking concerned. I suppose I'd been acting a lot like Dad, walking around in a fog, burdened by the guilt I felt for my role in Buster's death. She'd felt bad, of course. Anyone would, because to lose three pets in one week was just an awful run of bad luck...

It's not your fault.

It's mine.

...but she'd never been much of a cat person, really, so I don't think it had impacted her the same way it did Dad and me.  “You know what happened to Buster wasn't your fault, right? It was just an accident. And he was acting so odd that night. You couldn't have known he would run like that, and the timing, with me coming in the front door at that exact moment...?”

She shook her head, and something flitted across her eyes just then, a dark look which told me maybe the whole thing was bothering her more than I'd thought it was. It was there and gone in a second, however, and she shook her head. “It was just a freak thing, honey. It's not your fault, or anyone's fault.”

“I know. I guess.” I folded my hands on the table, rested my chin on my hands, and blurted out, “Dad says it's his fault. That he's paying for a mistake, or something.”

Mom snorted. Though maybe I was mistaken, I thought Mom's cheeks reddened with frustration. She waved as she sat down at the table next to me. “Your father is just being a little superstitious is all. This is nobody's fault.”

I cocked my head, chin still resting on the back of my hands. “Superstitious? About what?”

Mom sighed, looking as if it was the last thing she wanted to talk about. Finally, she shook her head, and, puffing a stray hair out of her eyes, she began. “It's silly, it really is. But your father's never forgiven himself for what happened to his first cat, Snow.”

Snow.

A white cat, I felt sure. Doing my best to achieve a juvenile kind of poker face, I said, “His first cat?”

Mom nodded. “Yep. Adopted Snow as a kitten when he was in graduate school. Had her when we first met. She was our first cat. She was beautiful. An almost a blinding white. She was a wonderful cat, really. I'd always been a dog person,” She paused, smiling at me, as if sharing a secret, “still am, really. Don't tell your Dad. But, even being a dog person, Snow won me over.”

“What happened?”

Mom's smile faded. “Snow was an indoor-outdoor cat, a lot like Buster. Would go ramming around everywhere. One summer, when you were only two years old, it rained almost every day. Got terribly damp, and the fleas got out of control that year. Our house – and Snow, too – was infested. We tried everything. Sprays, flea collars, vacuum powder, giving Snow flea baths, even 'flea bombing' the house. Nothing worked. And when the flea bites started showing up on your arms and legs...”

“Flea bites?”

Mom shrugged. “They weren't really harming you, I don't think. Just little red welts on your arms and legs after you slept. But it really bothered your father. The vet told him the only sure way to get rid of the fleas was to move Snow outside. After weeks of agonizing over it, he finally did it. Put Snow outside in the old wood shed. He moved all her things – litter box, food, bed – out there, and we started flea bombing the house all over again.”

“Did it work?”

Mom nodded slowly, lost in her memories. “It did. But he was wracked with guilt, especially because Snow did not take to the situation at all. She cried at the front door all night long, scratching to be let in. Those red welts on your arms and legs had really shaken him, though. He stood firm, though I think it killed a little part of himself inside.

“After about a week, the fleas had finally died down, and even though the vet said letting Snow back in would only start the whole problem over again, I believe your father was about ready to break. He was going to give in, and let Snow back inside. But when he went out to the woodshed that morning, he found a terrible thing.”

My stomach dropped and felt very cold. “Was...was she dead?”

Mom shrugged again. “We never found out. All he found was what looked like a struggle. Her bed upended and torn up. Litter from her box dumped all over. And...” she swallowed, and almost looked sad, “and clumps of white fur, everywhere. Snow's fur. But no blood, and no body.”

She looked at me sadly. “We never saw her again. And your Dad has felt terrible about it, since. Took him several years to get over it, and allow new cats in the house.” She smiled weakly. “And even though I think he's being a bit of a superstitious old woman about it, he thinks this whole week is just karma. Him getting punished, somehow, for putting Snow out of the house.”

She fell quiet, and I couldn't speak for several minutes. We just sat there, her looking away at something distant over my shoulder, me listening to the clock tick against the silence. I eventually gathered my courage and said, managing to keep my voice even, “Is...would Snow still be...alive? After all these years?”

Mom snorted a little, and I could see her shaking off the story's spell, relaxing. “No, honey. It's been eleven years. Snow was eight years old when this happened. Even if she survived whatever happened to her in that shed, she'd be very old for a cat, and in these woods?”

She shook her head. Stood, and went to finish her pies, saying as she wiped her hands on her apron, “Are you sure you don't want to go trick or treating tonight?”

I nodded listlessly, even though she wasn't looking. “Yeah,” I said, thinking of that white cat, staring at my father from across the road, “I'm sure.”

*

Had Snow somehow come back from wherever she'd gone to claim our cats, to punish my Dad? The idea seems ludicrous. Especially because, as a kid, I never saw the white cat again.

Of course, my parents never owned cats ever while living in Clifton Heights. Soon as they retired down to Florida, however, they got two young cats, both of which lived long, uneventful lives, surviving to the rich old ages of fourteen and thirteen, dying uneventful deaths of old age. I wonder about that, a lot. That Dad never got a cat again while he lived in Clifton Heights.

I haven't seen the white cat since I moved back.

But what would you think if I told you that, since moving to my parent's old cabin on the lake, several times, at dusk, I thought I saw an old calico flitting at the edge of the lawn, a calico looking very much like Buster? Is that crazy? Would you think me crazy for imagining it was Buster, haunting me for the role I played in his death?

I guess it doesn't matter. But I don't plan on owning any cats here in Clifton Heights, any time soon.

Gavin Patchett

Clifton Heights, NY