Little Kitty In a Trash Bag

Buster was an absolutely enormous tabby cat. By the looks of his handsome fur and starkly contrasted stripes, you would never imagine that he'd come from a trash bag.

When I was 19 years old, on a hot June day I was on my way home from work. My little red Dodge Neon did it's best to go from point A to point B, and the radio crackled out the clearest radio station I could find.

I'd had a long day that started at the obnoxious crack of dawn and was on my way to a hot shower as the evening sky turned pink and gold. I was exhausted, doing the speed limit, unable to rush even to get home. I was caked in trail dust and horse sweat, and just ready to rest.

That's when a black trash bag on the side of the road caught my eye. I'm not sure why, but the way it moved bothered me. It didn't seem to flit in the wind, but rather scooted about and wriggled. The bag looked like it had been run over, and something in me told me to stop.

I can't tell you how unbelievably happy I am today, that I stopped on the side of that muggy country road.

My work boots scuffed the pavement as I drug my aching feet and inhaled the smell of hot asphalt. After a few paces I heard the tiniest mewling. I can tell you, that sound drained all the exhaustion out of me and sent me scuttling for the bag.

Up until I heard the teeny cry I'd imagined that I was being over cautious. I was frustrated with myself for stopping, but did it anyway, just in case.

I tore the bag open and to my horror found seven kittens inside. I'll spare you the details that still keep me up at night and simply say, only one was still alive.

The moment I laid eyes on the one moving ball of claws and fluff that peered up at me, panting and crying, I scooped him up.

He fit in the palm of my hand, with a fat little belly and four paws that he one day grew into. It was obvious that he was much too young to be away from his Momma, and who knew how long he'd been baking in that trash bag.

I pulled off my over shirt and wiped him off with it as he clung to my hand with his tiny little claws. I'm not ashamed to say I was crying as I cleaned him. How could anyone have done this to a precious little creature like him, let alone seven of them?

I got in my car and took him home.

He was riddled with fleas, and needed treatment for worms. The vet informed me that he was only two weeks old. They offered to give him to a foster home, who would feed and care for him, but I just couldn't let the little fella go. So with kitten milk replacer and the smallest nursing bottle I had ever seen I went home and began the process of raising my feisty little tiger.

You might not know this, but kittens must be nursed every four hours. This meant my little guy went everywhere with me. From the moment I found him, until the moment I lost him, we were inseparable. Every day he would come with me to work. He would ride in my car, my shirt pocket, and my saddlebag. More than once I would pull out a little bottle and nurse him in the middle of a tour and the tourists would fawn over my little trail cat.

As he got bigger he decided that riding in the saddle bag just wasn't for him. He grew big and strong, and would walk along beside our group on the trail. He never went to far and would follow us for every tour. He would climb up on the horses and nap during breaks, or run up and parkour into my lap as we rode along.

I've never known a cat who acted like a farm dog, but Buster certainly did.

When tour season was over, and the horses took their vacation for the winter he would nap in the barn while I worked, or hold meetings with the other barn cats. From time to time I would catch him napping with his favorite pony friend, who was an ancient little guy named Teddy. If he wasn't with the horses, he was with the chickens, keeping watch over the coop and allowing the hens to try and brood on him. I even saw him once chase a chick back to it's mother that strayed too far.

Buster's greatest achievement however was defending his chickens from a fox.

By this time he was a whopping four years old. He weighed 20 pounds and was nothing but muscle. My friends joked that I'd found a wild cat and not a house cat because he was so large. Everyone loved him, and fawned over his beautiful fur. He could get anyone to love him with his gentlemanly ways and penchant for snuggles. Maybe I'm rambling, but can you blame me? It was a hot summer day and I was rooting through my vegetable garden, pulling up weeds.

The chickens were wandering nearby, plucking up worms and grubs that had been disturbed by my work and clucking excitedly. As I sat up and took a break I caught a flash of copper and black slipping across the field towards my chickens.

I remember yelling "It's that damn fox!" and scrambling to my feet. I'd lost six chickens in one week to that fox, and no doubt her kits were getting fat off my heirloom meat birds. I'd tried traps and deterrents but nothing seemed to work. I was at my wits end and my heart rate jumped as I watched it eye one of my feathered little girls.

And hot on the vixen's tail, was Buster. I gasped and felt fear pinch at my gut. What if the fox attacked him? What if he got hurt? I'll tell you that anxiety didn't last long.

I watched as Buster, hulking cat that he was, crouched down and exploded like a ball from a cannon. That poor fox didn't know what hit him. A frightened yelp was followed by a livid yowl and Buster latched onto the back end of that fox like a striped demon. The fox rolled and tumbled in a frantic effort to unlatch my cat from its ass end but with no luck.

The wiley creature even climbed halfway up a maple tree to try and lose the clawed fury that was scratching him. The moment the fox shook Buster off it bolted, and I'll be damned if that cat didn't chase the red devil across the field to the treeline.

That fox didn't dare come back until the next spring, and Buster got to keep all of his feathered friends that season.

Above all, Buster was a sensitive soul. He always knew how to cheer me up with a needy little headbutt or one of his signature trills. He was my partner in crime, my familiar, if you believe that sort of thing. His fur dried my tears in hard times, and his sweet sleepy face cheered me through the good ones.

I'll often wonder why I stopped that day in June, but it was one of the best decisions I ever made. The universe dropped a my best friend into my lap, wrapped up in black plastic.

I lost buster too early, and I haven't been able to replace him. I don't think I ever will. The vet said it was a heart condition, and my heart broke the day his stopped ticking. I can only hope he's waiting for me when I finally take the long trip.

Animals can touch our souls in such silent, and profound ways. Especially when we least expect it.