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Buster's Tale

By Tom Preble

Something is wrong.  Returning home up our long country driveway the overview of our ranch house and yard disturbs me.  Something's amiss that I can't quite finger.  Out of the car and looking around, I spot it.  Two bowls are beside the garage apron that none of us had put there.  On our door I find a note left by some friends from Ft. Collins: 

"We found this starving cat while visiting the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo.  Zoo folks said they'd; 'take the stray to be put to sleep'.  Too nice a cat for that.  We can't take him home to Ft. Collins with us and thought you might like him."

I'm annoyed.  "If we wanted a cat, we'd have a cat", I say crisply to my wife, Ilene.  Striding around outside with a stern countenance and sharp gaze, I find the stray.  Rack of hide covered bones with pelvis prominent, a huge black cat regards me apprehensively.  Hands on my hips, I give him my best level, irked stare.  The cat looks down in submission, his wasted, sere muscles tensed for flight.  Slowly, quietly lowering to my haunches I call to him.  Tentatively and silently, he comes.  He's all black and two feet long from nose to rump, not including tail.  Quite a large tomcat, emaciated or not.  He rubs my hand and starts purring, then sits with his front feet about five inches apart.  A chesty fellow.  I stroke him gently.  Getting up, I turn on my heel and return to the house.  Such a tough guy I am.  Moments later I return to ply him with a can of tuna.

That night the Ft. Collins friends call; "He's such a nice cat, but we couldn't keep him.  We hope you're not annoyed."

Annoyed - hah!  "You bring a stray cat to our house unannounced then let yourselves in to get our dishes and tuna to make sure that the stray hangs around.  Annoyed?  This is beyond annoying, this is amusing!"  They start mumbling apologies.  I stop them and tell them it's alright. 

Ilene, ever practical, interjects: "If they're going to dump a stray on us, it has to be adoptable.  Ask them if they'll pay for neutering, worming and shots."  And so arrangements are made.

He seems to prefer the company of people and our kids love him.  Jessie our four year old, announces without hesitation that she shall call him "Buster" and so Buster he is.  Ilene rustles up a cat carrier and takes Buster to the vet to get "fixed".  (Well, broken, actually when you think about it...)  As Buster calmly begins to exit the cat carrier on the examination table the vet exclaims;  "My God!  When does it stop?  From the zoo, you say?  Maybe he's an escaped panther!"

We are told that Buster is young and really quite healthy aside from his starvation.  His healthy weight we soon discover is twenty pounds.  Well mannered as he is, Buster does have a problem.  He sheds profusely and constantly.  Summer or winter Buster manufactures surplus cat hair.  Now consider the surface area of a twenty pound cat. 

Banished from the house, Buster accepts being an outside cat with aplomb.  Gentle and calm, he is my constant companion while I do ranch chores.  Running a noisy circular saw?  That's fine, Buster sits and watches.  Under the tractor or truck with a grease gun or changing oil?  Expect purring head-butts from a large silent fellow.  I find that any ranch chore I do, Buster shadows me just wanting to be near.  Friends tease me about being a "cat person".  "No, no", I explain.  "Look at the size of him!  One Halloween I put a cat costume on the dog and we haven't been able to get it off." 

Years pass and other barn cats are acquired.  They all have names, all are "fixed" and all get along because of big, gentle Buster.  They use him as a sofa and he is the hub of the wheel of their cat society.  The barn cats may not all like each other but they all love Buster who is invariably phlegmatic and gentle. 

We rescue a tiny orange kitten.  Her new surroundings and the hissing barn cats leave her rigidly afraid and confused.  Fearing she might be run off, we find Buster lying on his back in the sun and place the kitten on his chest.  Without a moment's hesitation he enfolds her in huge paws and begins purring and licking her ears. 

A chicken once came and crowded Buster away from his food bowl.  Stupid chicken.  Cats are pointy in five different places!  With one swipe of a huge paw, Buster could loft that chicken sailing in an arc like a feathered volleyball over the roof of the barn.  A puff of plumage slowly drifting to earth would be the only evidence that the chicken had even existed!  Buster just sits benignly and watches the chicken eat.

An old cat now, his mousing days are done.  Buster is a danger only to miller moths and grasshoppers.  Still my constant outside companion, I notice his breathing has a wheezy rumble.  Buster is sick.  The vet says no pneumonia, just an old cat with a cold.  We give him some pills and set him up in the cat's dog house with a heating pad under his bed. 

I never was a cat person.  I'd always looked upon animals that don't earn their keep on the ranch as a needless burden.  A realization dawns that Buster isn't just an animal.  He's a friend and my friends don't have to earn their keep with me.  In this often nettlesome world, our animal friends just love us.  They're not mad because they have to live outside or miffed if my busy-ness means they're ignored for days at a time.  There is no guile to their love.  "Let me be near you", a kind word, a touch, is all they want. 

The wife and kids are already asleep.  I finish up my work and close down the house for the night.  Outside, the barnyard glows softly under cold blue-white starlight and a silvery, curving sliver of moon, riding high.  I check on Buster and the kitties that still use him as a couch.  Satisfied all is well and slipping into bed quietly next to a sleeping Ilene, I drift off with a smile.  Buster is warm tonight.  He'll be okay.

Tom Preble

lvranch@worldnet.att.net       

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