Old Willard

Living in the bush as we do it is natural to adopt a number of domestic animals to share the homestead.  Not only are they uncomplaining and great companions but also become a useful part of the family unit. The cats keep the mice and other little critters under control and the dogs serve as an early warning device against any kind of home space invasion. They are always enthusiastic participants in any outside activity and are great fishing companions.  They don’t criticize the way you flog the waters and are vicarious fish eaters.

Old Willard, whom I am going to tell you about, has been with us the longest. Willard is a cat – a tomcat - who has been with us at the lake for nearly 20 years.  His tenure in the bush is in itself remarkable, as domestic animals become part of the natural food chain like any other living thing in nature. Many a time Willard has disappeared for a few days to come home very hungry and smelling like spruce gum. This being a sure sign that he’d spent a few days up a tree probably as a means of self-defense as he is not prone to climbing trees for entertainment.

He has been at death’s door on more than one occasion at least that we are aware of. The first time was just after he deliberately sprayed Irene’s pant leg. If the gun had not been locked up and hard to get at, old Willard would have met an early and messy end. Perhaps in his mind at least, he might as well have been shot, as the punishment for his misdemeanor was a trip to town where a certain part of his reproductive anatomy was removed.

The second time he became a borderline corpse was when the poor guy developed kidney stones. After much pain and suffering he was again scheduled for a trip to town and the crematorium. Luckily, the stones cleared a day before he was scheduled for that last ride to town.

In his heyday old Willard was a cat to contend with. He hunted squirrels, birds and muskrat even bringing home a weasel some years ago. Most game was brought home dead and partially eaten – he has a disgusting habit of feasting on the heads of his prey – but occasionally a live critter was brought in. His “pièce the rèsistance” was the afternoon he brought a grouse home for dinner. Let me elaborate.

During good weather, our kitchen window is normally kept open so that the cats can move in and out at will. The windowsill is about 60 cm off the lakeside deck, a height that any healthy cat can scale with ease.  One fine, sunny September afternoon I was sitting at our kitchen table eating lunch – a sardine and onion sandwich - the current newspaper spread out on the table in front of me.  My concentration was on the eating and the reading but by the time I was half way through the sandwich my attention became sidetracked by something that was happening on the front deck. There were some strange noises coming in through the window. Stressful sounds, grunts, scratching, cluttered noises that I couldn’t relate to. I was about to check things out when Willard’s head appeared above the sill. He had a wild and shiny look in his eyes and something dark between his jaws. He was having a heavy time of it yawing back and forth with the effort of it all. Claws firmly dug in, he leaned back and with a mighty toss of his head flipped a large object onto the sill. He dragged himself the rest of the way and again grabbed whatever it was firmly between his teeth and with another powerful heave flung it down at my feet.

By this time I had quit chewing and with open-mouthed amazement looked on as he followed whatever it was down onto the kitchen floor. A closer look identified the object as a completely intact and still warm grouse. I inspected the pile of feathers and found the neck broken but couldn’t find any other apparent injury or damage.

The cat sat at my feet and looked up with a very pleased expression on his mug. Then with a languid yawn in a matter of fact manner walked over to his basket behind the woodstove and proceeded to clean himself up.

Old Willard and I had grouse breasts for dinner that night. He enjoyed the meal just as much as I did and seemed to know that he was chomping on the spoils of his hunt.

Age is creeping up on old Willard and this will probably be his last winter with us. It isn’t any wonder that he had his own sock hanging off the mantle last Christmas morning.