Men - And Cats - In Trees

Never get a fifth cat!

I knew not to break that rule. It was better than set in stone; it was scratched into trees and into all the tender spots on my ribcage. And it was sacred.

I reached for the phone to place another embarrassing call to the fire department.

“My cat is stuck in a tree.”

Chuckles on the other side. Someone tried to compose themselves.

“I beg your pardon?”

I sighed. This was not going to be easy. “My cat. He is stuck on top of a tall tree. Don’t you guys rescue cats?”

“You watch too many movies, lady!”

“Oh come on, please? I know you did it once before for…a friend of mine.”

“Hold on.”

I held. And I recapped the sacred rule. We’d always had four cats. One for each direction of the wind. A North cat, somber and caught up in her own world; an East cat, tender and dreamy, all purrs and cuddles; a South cat, dominant, temperamental and apt to roam; and a West cat, eccentric and not quite right in the head. If we ever lost one, a new cat miraculously appeared to adopt us and settled easily into the vacant spot. So long as we adhered to the sacred rule, all was Zen. There should never be more than four.

“Ma’am?”

I snapped back to the present. “Yes?”

“Your address please?”

I prayed that she was new, that she had not been working five years ago, when we had to call for Mario, who sat, treed, for twelve hours in twenty degree weather, before they came to his rescue. I stuttered my address.

“That sounds familiar. What kind of cat is this?”

“A big orange tom. He’s been up there for hours. I can’t get him down.”

“Sit tight. They’ll be there as soon as they can.”

Just like last time, all three trucks roared up our drive way. Were they expecting a Mountain Lion? Like last time, one of them pulled straight into my flower bed and I, grateful for their appearance, bit my lip and said nothing.

They remembered me. They remembered the house and the call and the orange tom cat. I didn’t bother to tell them that Mario was dead and this was Yolotl and that we once again broke the sacred rule and adopted a stray, who battled for dominance within The Pride. Poor Yolotl, already at the bottom of the food chain, became the first victim. The newcomer chased him up the same tall oak that the firemen so well remembered. Meanwhile, the newcomer sat, large-eyed, paws tucked under, tail curled around his body and gloated.

I should not have brought him home, but he was torn and bleeding. I named him Spirit, because he had plenty of it. I spent $200 at the vet’s office. After two weeks recovery in my bathroom, I set him free. Ten acres was enough for five to spread out, right?

Not so. Just like the last time when we had five, the new guy started trouble. Spirit chased and provoked, harassed and intimidated. And he never grew tired.

Quickly, nimbly, the fireman scrambled up a tall ladder. He plucked a whimpering Yolotl from a skinny twig and clutched him against his body. Yolotl dove to the man's shoulder and clawed his chest. The fireman cursed, but he held tight. When he plopped Yolotl into my arms, he grimaced.

“Don’t let this happen again!”

Last time, I sent a cake to the fire department for their troubles. This time, it would cost me at least a brisket. It promised to be a busy week. And of course, I had to find a home for Spirit, before he chased off my other felines.

I was still red-cheeked when the fire trucks pulled, single-file, out of my driveway. Spirit rubbed against my legs and meowed sweetly, moonlight reflecting in soulful eyes.

“Sorry fellow, I don’t think this is going to work out.”

As if he understood, he trotted away, for once leaving Yolotl in peace. The Pride closed around Yolotl, unified in their disdain of the newcomer.

I vowed never to break the sacred rule again.