The Yellow Cat
The two boys were born close together. He was the elder by just over a year. They were good friends with the usual quarrels over toys and things. On the farm there were not so many toys and things to quarrel over.
Responsibility comes early when there are cows to milk and chickens to feed. They took turns and shared chores. Every second day he turned the handle of the separator in the milk shed, keeping the constant speed needed to send the cream out just past the vertical into the glass basin. The one who separated gave a little to the four or five cats in the farmyard before the rest of the skim milk went off to feed the calves.
And very grateful the cats were for the favour. They would gather round, screeching and jumping up until the old enamel plate was put down. All the cats, that is, except one. The orange striped marmalade cat would not make a sound. He would sit patiently until the plate was put down, and then without a look at the donor, he would walk over and begin to drink.
The boy didn't notice this at first, but then he remarked on the difference. He decided that this independence on the part of the cat needed attention. When he called the cats he gave special care to the marmalade one. He waved the plate of milk under its nose. He stroked it particularly before feeding it. The cat ignored him.
He tried bringing a special titbit for the cat. A piece of chicken from lunch, a piece of meat or fish. The cat would eat it all right, cats are like that, but not with any enthusiasm or affection. Cats are like that.
One day he mentioned the strange aloofness of the orange striped cat to his brother.
"Not old Yellow?" said his brother, "But he's the nicest and friendliest of the lot."
"I can't believe it." he said, and it was agreed that he would go down to the milking shed the next evening to watch his brother feed the cats.
As soon as his brother walked into the shed, the cat followed him. It rubbed itself around his ankles as he turned the handle of the separator, purring so loudly you could hear him across the room. As he scooped the cup of skim milk from the bucket and picked up the plate, the stripy orange cat jumped up behind him and sat on his shoulder, rubbing its face against his cheek.
While the other cats leapt about in anticipation as the milk was poured and lowered to the floor, the marmalade cat simply sat contentedly and purred on his brother's shoulder. At the critical moment it jumped down and took possession of the plate.
When the cats had finished drinking, it came and rubbed against his brother's legs until he picked it up and stroked it. It rolled over in his arms and allowed him to tickle it under its chin.
"You see" said his brother "Old Yellow is the best of them all."
"Why, yes. I've never seen him so friendly. Here, let me hold him."
His brother passed the cat over, but as he took him in his arms, he felt the animal stiffen. He tried to stroke it or scratch it behind the ears, but it writhed loose and ran out into the yard.
"I suppose it only likes you." He said, and walked out closing the door.
Now he redoubled his efforts to win over the cat. He brought it tasty food. He reached down and stroked it every night. He even went down to the milking shed to see it when he had a spare moment in the day. It accepted the food he brought it. It never relaxed when he was there. Cats are like that.
Then the cat appeared at the house. It was sitting sunning itself one morning on the verandah wall. When he approached it slipped over the wall and disappeared into the bushes but every now and then he would catch a glimpse of it.
One evening he went into his brother's room to borrow a modelling knife and the cat was asleep on the bed. He went up and tried to stroke it, but as soon as he touched it, it ran away. Looking closely, the foot of the bed was covered in cat's hairs.
"I saw the yellow cat sleeping on your bed." he said.
"Oh yes, Old Yellow often comes in and sleeps on my bed at night." said his brother.
Soon the cat was living in the house. It had left the rest of the farm cats in the milk shed and moved in with his brother. It slept on his bed every night and he fed it morning and evening. The cat ignored all the other humans in the house.
At meal times, the cat would come in quietly and sit at the back of the chair behind his brother. Now this was against the basic farm rule - no animals at the table. Even his father's dog, all the cats, no animals were allowed in the room at meal times. Some protest seemed called for and he tried to pick the cat up and throw it out.
His mother stopped him.
"Come on," she said, "the cat isn't making a nuisance of itself. It likes your brother and it sits quietly." So the cat stayed.
In the evenings as they sat in the living room and listened to the radio, the cat would curl up and sleep on his brother's lap. Occasionally it might also snuggle up to their mother, but if his brother came into the room then the cat would move over to him.
"The fuss he makes of that cat is obscene." he said to his mother. "It isn't healthy having an animal sleeping on your bed at night."
"Oh nonsense," she replied "lots of people let animals sleep on their beds. Your Great Aunt Hilda even had a dog that slept on her bed while she was alive. You must learn to live and let live."
In general the attitude to animals on a farm cannot be too sentimental. Today's pet duckling is all too apt to turn into tomorrow's Sunday roast. Roast chicken today is the old bird that stopped laying yesterday and the kids are the only ones agile enough to catch a squawking fowl as it runs around the yard in justified fear of the kitchen hatchet.
And from the age of - maybe - ten, if a chicken was needed for the pot it fell on whichever of the boys was handy to catch it and dispatch it down among the chips and splinters by the chopping block at the bottom of the kitchen garden. Then his mother would pluck it and clean it and singe it before it could be cooked.
And all this was just business as usual. There could be very little emotion for particular animals. Oh, it was always exciting to see the newly hatched chicks cluster round their mother. One would struggle through the night to save a weakling calf. Calling the chickens for their half tin of crush and lay pellets, it was wonderful to see them gather round as if they were part of the family, but it was - should be - businesslike and professional.
There was no room for this irritating personal attachment to a particular animal. It could only lead to trouble when the cat's time came. Anyone sensible could see that the animals on the farm were stock also in the sense that stock is held in a shop: for disposal at a profit in one way or another.
Even the wild animals who occasionally preyed on the farm stock were part of an economic sphere rather than an emotional one. To set a trap for a wildcat or skunk that was raiding the chicken run or eggs was a test of wits and skill; like doing a crossword puzzle or playing a sport. To go out and shoot a rabbit for the pot with the old .22 was the same. Nothing personal.
One should never be unkind to animals. They are our livelihood. But surreptitiously - when his brother was not there to object - he would take the cat off the bed and shut it outside. And when his brother was not there for meals, the cat was locked out with the other animals. He even tried to lure the cat back to the milk shed with titbits. In so far as he was able, he ensured that it led a spartan life up at the house, but that cat was stubborn as sin. Cats are like that.
As the years passed, he lost interest in the cat. It became a fixture at the house, and they began to ignore each other. That cat was trouble, but he took the view that it was his brother's problem. He was the one laying up trouble for himself with his untoward affection for an animal that would undoubtedly betray him in due course.
It might leave, or disappear, or get sick or die and his brother would regret it then. But the cat did not die. It grew fat, and lazy and, in the end spent most of its time on his brother's bed or lying on the verandah chair in the sun.
And then, the whole structure of their life was broken. Their father was rather older than their mother. He had suffered for some time from shortness of wind and pains in the chest. He went to the doctors and was X-rayed. They operated but the cancer of the lung was too far advanced to do very much about it and, in the space of eleven months he was gone.
It was the end of the world as they knew it. The two sons had to take on new responsibilities but, after the initial period of survival at all costs, it was clear that they could not keep the farm while the boys were still at school.
The farm was put up to auction and, because it was now on the outskirts of the expanding town, it fetched a better price than expected from the developers. What could be sold of the farm machinery was disposed of. The stock, including the two dogs, was taken on by a cousin of their mother's and they were able to find a spacious apartment in town near the school. No animals allowed.
They went through all the junk and their mother drove the old truck to the tip with what they could not keep or give away. At last they were ready for the move and that left only the cats.
A couple of kittens they managed to give away, but no one would take an old, half wild yellow farm cat. Their mother did not want the vet to put it down. It would be buried on the farm where it had lived. She called him into her bedroom. She could not ask his brother to shoot the farm cats. Would he please take on the responsibility as the oldest son of humanely and cleanly seeing to this last job before they moved into town to a new city life?
His face was sternly controlled. He showed no emotion at all, no vindication. He was almost a man. He could do it.