It was about two years ago when she came out of the woods — weak, dehydrated and skinny as a rail.
Also, pregnant.
She had come, however, to the right place. It would be her home for a spell. She would get taken to a doctor, and would survive to bring happiness as if it had fallen from the sky.
She was a middle-aged cat and quite wild at first. Not tame.
The vet did what he had to do — spayed her (there went the pregnancy), and put her on the road to recovery. Said the animal doc: “She wouldn’t have survived without it.”
A couple of weeks passed and Smokie had put on weight. She was ready for a new home, a permanent place where she could roam the woods, do her own hunting, learn how to handle the three dogs who already had established the area as their private domain. That took a while.
Smokie took her place in an outdoor room next to the barn. She ate her meals there early on, adjusting to her new quarters, scampering to her hideaway when the dogs came bursting from within with little notice. She had her strength and quickness back by then and left the dogs nothing but dust.
In time, cat and dogs learned to ignore each other. In time, Smokie was at home on the front porch. She never asked to go inside. Smelled too much like dogs. She took her food on the front porch, slept in the cushioned rocking chair and roamed the woods at will.
She had checked out that small world, apparently, for she seemed to know about things that matter. She knew who took her to the vet and kept her healing. She knew who kept her meals on the porch and her living quarters neat enough for a cat.
During this time, she got used to her provider. Call her Louise. She let Louise pick her up and rub her head. She showed appreciation by bringing in little mice and chipmunks and placing them on the porch.
When Louise worked the yard, Smokie would lie in the sun with one eye half open. After a year, it was one big, happy family. They did everything except eat from the same bowl.
Smokie was at least 10 when she came to live with Louise. She probably was 12 when she started not showing up at night for her meal.
Then, for the most part, she disappeared.
A couple of weeks ago, she struggled out of the woods, emaciated, barely able to walk, eyes showing hurt and question marks.
Gently, Louise carried her into the warm house. She was offered food and drink. She took a few laps of water, licked the food but ate nothing.
She slept in the house that night but ate nothing the next morning. The vet was the next stop.
An examination showed Smokie’s kidneys were failing. It would be a painful struggle to try to make her feel better. It was best to let her go.
She was a very sweet and very loving little cat. And, for two years, she lived on a great place where she loved to hunt. Even made friends with the enemy.
Cats get old, just like people. And when the end is in sight, we all tend to huddle like misers over the bag of life.
So long, Smokie.
Bill Williams is a former editor of The Gaston Gazette. His column regularly appears on Mondays.