Are Cats Necessary?

There was a time, back in the infancy of biological science, when the presence of mice was explained by a process called “spontaneous generation.” The idea was that if you left a pile of laundry in the corner for too long, mice would emerge as a result. When I was a small thing we had a barn like that except what it produced was cats, a steady stream of scrawny, feral, voracious cats. This was back in an era before it was obligatory to provide food, shelter, and medical coverage to all cute animals, such as cats, bunnies, baby seals, and the like, while doing everything possible to eliminate those that are not such as bugs, snakes, bats, and so forth. So it was that this multitude of cats lived out their short, mean lives in the barn largely unmolested and untended. Which is not to say that we neglected them entirely. We did feed them. Every day they got a big aluminum frying pan without handle full of dog food and dog kibble damped down with reconstituted powdered milk upon which they fell with much pushing and growling as if they hadn't seen food in the month, which was a lie. Sometimes they would be the lucky beneficiaries of chicken bones or trimmed pork fat. While they weren't thrilled by these offerings they did nothing to dispel the notion that they would eat anything that was placed in that frying pan.
One day my brother demanded that we have a tub of Cool Whip which he had seen advertised somewhere. The rule was that if we demanded that some experimental foodstuff be brought into the house the demander was responsible for eating every bite if it proved to be revolting. We quickly learned which exotic flavors of ice cream and sandwich spreads were to be avoided, but that was after we gagged down the tub we had whined into the house. This was different though. This was so nasty that nobody in the house would touch it, including my brother after his first mouthful. My mother, a world-class nag, couldn't budge him. It was clear that that tub of cool whip was on its way to becoming a permanent resident of the freezer. Then one evening as she was draining the broth off a pot full of chicken necks and grey vegetables, my mother looked out the window at the expectant horde and the light bulb lit. For that evening's special treat they were to get the broth remains, dog kibble, and Cool Whip spread over it like a meringue pie. When I took it out to them, they swirled around my feet as usual, whining and shoving, and as soon as I lowered it to the ground they were on it. Well, near it. After a few tentative licks they backed away and looked at me with puzzled faces that screamed “Et tu Brute?” After a while, hunger overcame them and they returned to the dish and then these chronically ravenous creatures, which would eat the tires off your car, burrowed under the Cool Whip to get at the bleached out onions and celery which they porked down with abandon. In the end we had to send the residue to the dump after all.
These cats were mostly anonymous. They came to be fed at supper time and then would vanish until supper time tomorrow, or sometimes forever. We never took attendance. But there were a few that we noticed and even named such as Flannel and Schmebeth, who were cute fluffy little grey things. Flannel was run over by a laundry truck and my heart was broken. I don't remember what happened to Schmebeth. Bottlebrush was around for several years as were Boy, Girl and Other Cat who were siblings.
We had a nanny who had a thing for cats. She couldn't stand the sight of them. Every now and then we would sneak some kittens into the house under our jackets. They would inevitably be found out when they wandered out from under some piece of furniture, and the nanny would get the broom and gently (for she was not an unkind person) sweep them out the door. In any case that is what happened to Boy, Girl, and Other. We stayed friendly but they were never allowed back into the house.
I don't know where eggnog came from. In stark contrast to the bulk of the largely mud colored neighborhood cats, he was pure white and very cute as a happy young thing, although lacking the slightest interest in sleeping on people's laps or being carried around by small children, so he was soon absorbed in the ever-evolving commune in the barn. As time passed the incidence of white kittens in the area increased dramatically, at the same time that Eggy came straggling home bearing the wounds of amorous conflict.
My father was involved in local conservation efforts around this time. One project was somewhat controversial and there were loud meetings. For the most part he tried to confine his argumentation to meetings during the week so as to keep the weekends free for restful pursuits such as loafing around in the greenhouse. One Saturday afternoon he was poking around in there when a car drove in with a couple of women hoping to discuss this contentious issue. They were done up to the nines, perfect beehive hairdos, sleek pastel-colored pantsuits just back from the cleaners, accessorized with Marimekko scarves and white patent leather handbags to match their open-toe sandals. My father emerged from the greenhouse with yesterday's stubble, wiping peat moss on the raggedy pants my mother had been trying to throw away for months. He gestured for them to sit down on the director's chairs that were scattered about under the buttonwood tree. The chairs had been there long enough that the perpetually shedding tree had pretty well crusted them with stickiness and seed fluff. The visitors looked at them, appalled. One of them tried to brush off the fluff, but it was stuck down with sap. Nevertheless, they were determined. In the end they perched on the edge of their chairs leaning forward so as not to touch the back and clutching their white patent leather purses as if they thought my father might snatch them away and dash off into the barn. My father, meanwhile, had assumed the luge position on his chair and was picking at his fingernails.
From my vantage point at the kitchen window I couldn't hear what was said, but they couldn't have covered much ground before Other Cat crept out from under the boxwood, in heat again in spite of her great age, and started squirming around on the warm bricks of the walkway. It wasn't long before Eggnog staggered out from somewhere. This was toward the end of his days and one of his ears was ripped half off, he was blind in one eye, lame, drooling, and scabrous, but hormones still at full rolling boil. The visitors glanced, appalled, at these pathetic old creatures before returning to the attack with greater urgency. My father stopped picking at his fingers and sat up, interested to see what Eggy would do. There wasn't long to wait.
Other stop squirming when Eggy finally made his slow and stumbling way to her bedside. There ensued a horrified silence among the visitors while Eggy and Other noisily established the next generation of barn residents. My father watched the process with mild interest up until the visitors got to their feet and made for their car, brushing buttonwood fluff off their polyester bottoms. He then left the cats to their business and return to the greenhouse without, to my certain knowledge, ever having said anything.