Cat Refuge

There was a time, when Summer days seemed longer, and starlit nights beamed brighter. But it may not have been a time, nor even a place, but just being so young. And when home, was a cat refuge.

We lived on 23 acres in a rural area, just outside of Tampa, Florida. I grew up as an only child with older parents, when everything began, and centered around the home. In today's terms, it might have been a mini-farm, with a dog, and a horse, then a cow, a calf, some baby chicks and some ducks.
But most of all, there were the cats, 17 of them.

There was the first cat, Smokey, my cat Mustard, the very color of spicy mustard, and one of her offspring, Kenny. But most came from the woods, from the road, from being "dropped off" and found their way. And there was always a mother cat ready to deliver kittens.

Mom was a country vet of sorts tending the sick and wounded with her home remedies. There was periodic dustings in flea powders, and she could even cure mange. Most flourished, content to just lay in the shade.

In the Summer, there was always a fluff of bright blue eyed kittens to find homes for. They played, tumbling in the flower beds, and digging in the flower pots.

Through the years, some of the cats cease to return, the peril of being outside, and the shorter life spans. Though I did see Tom once, a cat who never came close to anyone, leaping over the tall grass by an isolated country road. He looked so wild.

And though, some cats may not have came close enough to hear, they were all given a name and given refuge.

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