May 2007                                                 The Megaphone                                              Page 6

To All Cat Lovers of the Panther Den

by Norma (Barmes) Abbott    

When I was a lot younger, some 56 years ago, I had a cat named Punkin. When I got married and moved to Tipton, I took her with me. I had already had her fixed because if I hadn't, I'd have had a house full of cats. Didn't want that either.

Well, she came up missing one day in Tipton. I didn't know what to do but I cried and cried. At the time, my mom and dad lived on a farm between Elwood and Frankton. I went over there quite a lot because I didn't want to stay by myself. My husband at the time was working out of town a week at a time.

One morning my mother called and said, "Norm, Punkin just showed up and I fed her some hamburger." 

Well, I jumped in the car and came over. To my surprise, there was Punkin. That is, until it walked away. It was by no means a female cat. I told my mom and she picked that poor cat up and threw it out in the yard. Never saw it again, nor did I ever see Punkin.

Norma (Barmes) Abbott

Elwood, IN

A Tale of Two Cats

by Karen (Stine) Hollies

As a child, we had several cats -- all of which were mine. My brother brought home dogs. I brought home cats. However, in my married life, I found that one difficult dog led to us adopting a cat in 1972. It was our oldest daughter’s cat and she promptly named him “Samuel,” after her dad. In order not to cause confusion, we suggested that she name him “Yule,” as it sounded like the last part of the name she had picked and the cat as a Christmas surprise. (Thank God, it was not her main gift, as she promptly excused herself from all of the litter chores, etc., and relinquished him to me. He was her cat in name only.) 

“Yuley the Terrible” was adopted in Connecticut and must have come from a cat family raised by Italians. He had this absurd love of anything with tomatoes, any pasta products, and pepperoni. He was neutered and de-clawed and became the terror of the neighborhood when we moved to Ohio. He feared neither man nor beast. In the summer we would hear this terrible battle in the woods behind our home. Here would come Yuley, head held high, often one ear bloodied and gouged, strolling out the victor. One admired Yuley. He was a small gray tabby who did precisely as he pleased and behaved more like a watch dog than a cat. He loved high places and I often would find him on a high shelf in the laundry room. He was too wild to truly endear himself to any person, but we admired his nerve. He wanted to be with us, but preferred not to be toughed unless he was feeling very magnanimous. Then, he would sit on my lap while I watched TV. Quite often, he would leap onto the book shelves, kick the books onto the floor and make himself regally at home. He lived to be thirteen and passed away one night as he slept under a large plant in the den.

Alfred was almost Yuley’s opposite. We got him for Maggie for Christmas in 1985. Again, his care was delegated to me. Alfred was also a tabby with black stripes and was gray, but had a lot of buff coloring and huge yellow eyes. He was not the brightest star as far as animal instincts go, but he was definitely a “people” kitty and endeared himself to all who knew him. Once we moved here to the condo, Alfred made it his business to visit all of the residents in the building. He found true fans in the couple across the hall and then would mew at their door so that he was invited in. Now, they had a timid but gorgeous Maine coon cat named Charles. Alfie preferred dogs to cats and would hiss at Charles as he passed. He would sample some of “Chuck’s” food, tour their condo, nuzzle their dog and then ask to be let out. When the people who lived upstairs would walk their poodle, Buffy, Alfie would lie on the steps forcing Buffy to step over him. They became dear friends. Years passed and Alfie lived to be seventeen. Saying goodbye to him was like losing a treasured friend. Believe it or not, neighbors sent cards of sympathy because their “condo kitty” was gone.

Two cats, thirty years -- long enough for cats that were never intended to be mine.

Karen Stine Hollies, '54

Virginia Beach, VA