Calico Memoirs

ID: 333655   (Rated: 13+) The Writer's Cramp  Write the best story or poem in 24 hours or less and win 10,000 GPs! by Sophy

Entry Length: 989 words

Today's Prompt (April 29, 2008):

Write a short story or poem that starts with the following sentence: "The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago." EDITED: 8/25/08

         The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago. Now, that's nothing to get all worked up about. My mother was a ginger American shorthair tabby who couldn't have been older than three winters when we kittens were born.

         Back in the older times she would've initiated us into the ways of the wild like our larger brethren of the jungles: taught to stalk, taught to pounce, and taught to answer the call to procreate. But we being born in a yellow farmhouse a half a day's trot from town, my mother didn't bother with those things. She still hunted on occasion out of instinct, but she was raised with a full food dish like I was raised with a full food dish. We never had to worry about the starving death the way our forefathers did.

         I'm not sure how old I was the afternoon I left the farmhouse; I know I was getting to the getting age because I had graduated to chewing solid food. Most of my siblings had already been claimed by this boy and that lady and I started thinking that the farm may become my permanent home. I heard the farmer talking about it to the wife while tending the horses the night before. I was out chasing a loose napkin swept up by the fingers of the breeze when I saw the pale, sandaled feet of a little girl walking up the drive.

         I didn't have time to object before the girl lifted me off the ground and to her eyes. Bright blue eyes, I'll never forget, and two long delicate ropes of braided blonde hair lying on her shoulders. She stared through my eyes for a few moments before flashing a gap-toothed grin. I didn't even notice the farmer standing behind her until I saw his weathered hand on her shoulder. "Is that the kitten you want, Lil' Mitzy?"

         She looked up at the man who towered over the two of us, still wearing her charming grin. "Yeah. I like this one. Is it a boy or a girl?"

         "Well, let's see," he said. She handed me to the farmer and he lifted me tall enough to see the tops of his silver hair. "Looks like a boy."

         The farmer gave me back to Mitzy and she looked into my eyes again, fascinated. "He has a neat little eye patch," she said. "I think I'll name you Patches. Yeah, Patches."

         I'm not sure what kind of a cat my father was, seeing how he had left long before we were born. I did notice at the farm that some of my siblings wore stripes like my mother and some of us wore a dizzy mix of white, black and brown splotches like me. Calico, I think I heard the farmer say once. One time when I was splashing and pawing through the fresh rain puddles out on the drive I saw in my reflection what Mitzy referred to as my "eye patch": a small disk of pure white fur surrounding my right eye.

         After her mother handed the farmer a few bills and Mitzy locked me into the travel cage, I lost the farm cat that I was to become the new household pet. We rolled out of the driveway where I had spent all of my afternoons and I looked out one last time at the farm before we drove away. I saw my mother sitting by the farm's rusty, black mailbox, and her somber eyes told me that we would never meet again. Mitzy could barely tie her own shoes, but from then on she was my new mother.

         Mitzy never missed a feeding time or a litter change in all her childhood days. She was quiet girl and a gentle girl and I loved her for that. Still do. People think sometimes cats don't appreciate those little gestures. I'll be the first to admit we may act like we care less, and sometimes that's the truth. But it's not always that way. It never was with Mitzy.

         We lived in our domestic bliss for three years until one night I got myself into a mess. I was out prowling around the town like cats do and I ran into one mean scrapper of a tom. Chewed half my ear off and cut my right eye wide open. I still had my claws, but I turned out to be a lousy fighter. By the time I staggered home at sunrise my white patch turned red and my head was light. I remember hearing Mitzy's cry and I remember being carried to the car, but not much else.

         When my wounds healed I was scheduled to go in for another procedure. They thought I wouldn't know what getting "fixed" was, but I knew. I protested all the way to the office, making a real show of it. The ruckus didn't stop until Mitzy held me in her arms.

         "They need to do this so you don't run away," she said to me. "If you keep running away, you'll get hurt again." I knew she was right. I knew she was right when I saw the hurt in her eyes to even think of it. In the end I submitted without a fuss. I could never say no to Mitzy. I'd be a fool to try.

         For twelve years since I have lived as a settled and happy housecat. Mitzy and her family gave me everything I needed without fail and I behaved my best in return. Her mom feeds me daily now. Mitzy has gone off to a school far away and I only see her every so often. The days are slower and I'm getting older but I wouldn't trade in any day of my life. I'm content to spend my afternoons at the window, waiting for a blonde-haired girl to come and steal my heart again.

Thank you, Gabriella , for the wonderful awardicon!