The Importance of a Barncat

Wren’s brother came in from feeding the cattle holding his arm at a funny angle, away from his body, as if his elbow hurt him. Even as she opened her mouth to ask, he put a finger to his lips. “I brought you something,” he spoke quietly, then grimaced. “But I’m going to need help. He’s nervous. Here, hold my sleeve shut.”

He??

Wren delicately held the sleeve shut while her brother wriggled slowly out of his heavy winter coat. “You know that guy down the road that raises attack dogs? He let them out—and they were in our barn. Don’t worry—” he saw her face--“the cattle are fine. They can kick.” He grinned. “But the dogs had this little guy pinned down. He’d squeezed himself behind a beam, so I waded into the pack swinging a bucket and got him. Then he slithered down my sleeve and I couldn’t bend my arm the whole time I was feeding.”

Slithered???

His arm was out now. “He didn’t even bite me. I think he’s too scared.”

“What about the dogs?” Wren asked, settling only one of the many questions she had. “They didn’t bite you, did they?”

“Naw—I made too much noise with my bucket—now—open the sleeve slowly…”

Wren’s brother wasn’t the kind to play pranks. He was holding down two jobs, even while he was finishing his senior year of high school, saving up for college next year. Since their father’s death, their mother was often at work too, paying off hospital bills along with the regular ones. Everything at their house the last several months was either work or school, and surprises had been rare for a while…so... Slowly and cautiously (“biting” had been mentioned), she opened the sleeve. Nothing came out.

“He’s hanging on. Better reach up and get him,” her brother said. Eyes wide, Wren did so and heard a faint, terrified mew.

“Kaleb!” She breathed. He grinned at her. Gently she reached up into the sleeve and pulled out a scrabbling, blue-eyed, and somewhat shell-shocked kitten. He had enormously long, ginger fur. He looked from Kaleb to Wren and promptly went limp.

Wren was abjectly smitten and promptly named him Tigger. Kaleb thought he was probably around six weeks old, and though completely feral, warmed up quickly to Wren’s persistent love. After only one day of snacks, gentle cuddles, and conversations, Tigger had decided that he liked people. He put his nose up willingly for pets and made biscuits on the floor when he saw a bowl coming his way. He was a huge fan of laps.

Their mother took one look at little Tigger and agreed that he could stay, but she warned that they had a trip coming up at the end of the week—what did they intend to do with a tiny kitten? He couldn’t be left alone; he couldn’t come along. They didn't have anyone who could take him in for the weekend. Kaleb and Wren both went back to the barn over the next week, looking for Tigger’s family. Only once did they see another kitten, a calico, and she was having nothing to do with them. Wren didn’t sleep for the next several days, worrying.

The day of the trip arrived, and their mother made a decree: Tigger must be returned to the barn. He had at least one litter-mate and likely his mother there. Wren was full of objections. “But the dogs! He’ll forget me! What if something happens to him?!” But their mother was firm; nothing else made sense.

It was hard to get Tigger to stay behind. A happy little kitten who loved his new family, he stuck to Wren’s heels. Finally, she had to make a mad dash from the barn to the car. She cried for the first hour of the drive. Kaleb kept up a steady stream of reassurances. “He knows how to take care of himself. He’s got his mom somewhere!” But Wren worried herself to sleep every night over that long weekend.

Monday after school should have found her rushing to the barn, but she found herself hesitating. It took her until late evening to work up the nerve to hike up there. The sun was setting, sending long thin beams of light through the cracks between the slats of the barn walls. The whole inside was full of these red-gold stripes, and lit up even the dark loft. It would be hard to see one little ginger cat in all that gold. At the top of the loft ladder, Wren called his name. “Tigger?”

Would he remember she called him that? Would he remember her voice, remember her? She tried again, louder, her voice instantly swallowed by the soft hay surrounding her. “Tigger? Tiiiigger!"

Silence. She was opening her mouth to call again when suddenly a trilling little call came to her. She looked up. There, on a bale high above her head was a long-haired ginger kitten, kneading the hay and purring his tiny heart out.

“Tigger!” she called delightedly, and Tigger came. Tigger came home.