A Close Encounter

Maggie HATES small animals. She loathes the dog, but she particularly despises the cats.

Saturday April 7th, 2012 (Easter Weekend)

As I throw the horses their mid-day hay, stray pieces of the dried grass are lifted into the air by a strong north wind. Because Maggie's recovering from a recently pulled check-ligament, the horses are segregated in their individual paddocks. They can see each other, but can't interact (or chase each other around). Murray's turn-out is in the middle so, to save time and energy, I toss hay over the fence to each of the "girls" from there.

The fence between Murray and Maggie is higher than most, with just small gaps between the boards. It was designed to separate the previous owners' stallion from the mares. With effort, I toss a flake of hay high over the fence and into Maggie's paddock. But Maggie doesn't notice. She's around the corner, in her stall, gulping up the fresh water I just poured into her bucket.

I call her name, but my voice is carried away on the wind. I call again, and bang on the fence to get her attention. Finally, I hear movement from her stall. It seems, however, that my voice has also reached Zorro's ears. My sly, dog-like, tuxedo- wearing cat suddenly appears at my feet. He pauses briefly to rub his sleek coat against my filth-covered boots. Then, with a flick of his tail, he stalks-off under the fence toward Maggie's lunch.

Hay piles are to Zorro are like empty boxes are to little children-- they're great places from which to build forts and plan attacks. Murray's mounds of hay (larger, and longer-lasting than those of the mares) are Zorro's favourite playgrounds. Thankfully, Murray is ambivalent toward Zorro's antics. For the most part he ignores him, though occasionally he gently rubs his velvety muzzle deep into the cat's fur. Unfortunately, such close contact with cat hair almost always causes Murray to sneeze, and that almost always frightens the cat away.

Maggie, however, has no tolerance for feline companionship. She gnashes her teeth at Zorro when he uses her door as a spring-board to launch himself into the hay loft. She shakes her head and squeals at him when he trots along the path outside her paddock fence. When he carelessly wanders into her paddock, she angrily chases after him. That generally leads me to duck frantically through the fence rails to scoop up my wayward cat.

Zorro's pursuit of Maggie's hay pile begins just as Maggie lumbers lazily around the corner, her hooves thudding dully on the dusty ground. My heart speeds up. I try calling Zorro back to me. He turns his head momentarily, but continues decidedly toward the hay. I look back at Maggie. Her kind, elephant-like eyes scan the paddock for her mid-day meal. Her ears prick up as she glimpses the new pile of hay.

In the next instant, the ears flick backwards, and are suddenly pinned against flat against her head. Her nostrils crinkle, her lips curl. She thrusts her jaw forward and lowers her head like a bull about to charge. Tension fills her body as she zeroes-in on Zorro. Unfortunately, Zorro, such a prolific hunter himself, seems to have no idea that he's being stalked.

Zorro ignores my frantic calling. His singular focus is a piece of hay waving in the wind. I want to duck between the fence boards and pull my feline friend to safety. But I don't fit. Only the tiniest of children could slip between the boards in this section of fence. And it's too high to climb. And anyway, each board is protected by an innocent-looking strand of electrical rope. All I can do is watch.

Maggie, within a stride or two of Zorro, menacingly shakes her head toward the cat, and grinds her teeth in anger. Then, with surprising speed, she lunges forward. I scream. I don't mean to scream. I intend to yell "whoa" in the deepest, most authoritative voice that I can muster. But what comes out is a high-pitched, half scream, half cry. With that, Zorro turns his head and his eyes widen in alarm as he finally notices Maggie. In that moment, she strikes violently at him with her dinner-plate-sized front hooves. She throws her entire 13 hundred pound frame into the effort. Dirt and sand spew into the air as her hooves hit the ground with a deafening thud.

Somehow, Zorro manages to shrink his lanky frame into a tiny ball, and her hooves merely graze his back, missing their mark by inches. Maggie, frustrated, squeals and lashes out again with her front feet, but as she raises them into the air, Zorro dashes-off with cheetah like speed. She turns to pursue him, but I regain my voice, and this time my deep, angry yell gets her attention. Besides, he's on the other side of her paddock now, and there's a fresh pile of hay at her feet. Maggie's features soften, her ears come forward, and she begins to make quick work of her lunch. Now safely outside of the fence, Zorro (unscathed except perhaps for his pride) takes a brief backward glance before heading into the field to find (hopefully) a less dangerous place to play. One of these days, his nine lives are going to run out.

How Zorro has spent his nine lives thus far:

1. Stuck his neck in the door of the truck as it was being slammed shut

2. Got knocked down out of the hayloft by a bale of hay

3. Jumped out of the hayloft for fun

4. Stayed out late when the coyotes were on the prowl

5. Got chased by Maggie

6. Got beaten up by the Tom cat

7. Tried to take a nap on Maggie's door and nearly got eaten

8. Rubbed up between Jaava's hind feet while she was being tacked-up

9. Got chased and nearly stomped on by Maggie

Hmm... so maybe he has 10 lives?

Are Nine Lives Enough? (Updated)

Monday July 25, 2011
9:30 pm
It's that in-between time of night. It's past dusk, but the sky is not yet completely envelopped by darkness. We trudge outside for a quick check on the horses, even though they're turned out for the night. Dave's in flip flops, and I'm in my winter-lined rubber boots-- because they're easy to pull on in a hurry.

We step out the front door with Muscade in toe. Within seconds, we hear the jackel-like cries. A pack of coyotes is yipping, and shrieking nearby. The bone-chilling sound is coming from somewhere down the hill-- though it's difficult to distinguish exactly where, and how far away (though definitely not far at all). Whenever I hear them like this, I always assume they've made a fresh kill and that they're gleefully tearing apart their prey.

I yell at Muscade to follow me "now!", and I practically shove her back in through the front door of the house. Meanwhile, Dave kneels in the driveway, coaxing the always timid Lilly out from under the car. As soon as she's within reach, he scoops her up in his arms, and we drop her off in the house as well. And then the high pitched cries stop. They stop suddenly, as though someone has muted the volume on their awful voices. We stand stock-still. We hear the distant barking of the fssive white-haired dog who guards the goat-farm down the hill. The farm is only a kilometre away, and the reassuring voice of the dog sounds much, much further off that that of the coyotes. When the coyotes fail to re-start their discussion, we stop holding our breaths, and head out to the pastures to check on the horses.

The horses have their noses buried deep within the dew-covered blades of grass. They're so intent on their eating, that they barely acknowledge our presence. But as we turn off the lights, my heart sinks. All the animals are accounted for-- except one. Zorro is nowhere to be seen. Normally, I would barely register his late-evening absence, but in the wake of what we just heard, I'm worried, and so is Dave. I start calling Zorro's name, and Dave goes back into the house in search of a flashlight. When he finally finds one (and replaces the dead batteries), we walk down the driveway, peering across the road into the black fields in search of glowing, green eyes. Nothing.

We change course and walk the length of our largest pasture, but the flashlight illuminates only weeds, and the large mounds of dirt which will soon cover the pipes leading away from our new septic tanks. We walk out to the garden, but find only undersized rainbow chard, and lush green potato plants. Still no Zorro.

We check the barn again, and Dave even climbs into the hayloft to see whether our tuxedo-cat may be in the midst of a particularily good nap on a sweet-smelling bale of our newest hay. He's not there. At my insistance, we get in the car and drive down the road. I open my window and call his name. At the corner, we turn around and drive back. Part of me is sure Zorro will be in the driveway when we pull in. But he's not.

10:30pm
If Zorro were around he would have found us by now. We call off the search for the night. As we resignedly re-enter the house, we pause in the mudroom to hug and hold Lilly. She squirms and struggles to get free-- to run out the front door. But we're not taking any chances. Tonight, Lilly's an indoor cat. All we can do for Zorro though is hope and pray that he's out hunting-- huddled in the grass somewhere, his body bunched, and ready to pounce. I hope against hope that he'll turn up on our doorstep in the morning, begging for his breakfast.

Tuesday July 26, 2011
1:30 am
I wake up as Dave peels back the blankets and gets up out of bed.
"What are you doing?" I ask groggily, though I already know why he can't sleep.
"It's hot," he says.
"Sure," I respond.

Then we hear it. It's not a pack of coyotes this time, it's a lone animal howling. Again, the goat-guard-dog down the road barks a response, but again the coyote sounds much closer. It sounds as though it could be in the bottom of our field.

Dave pulls on shorts and shoes as the coyote howls again. Then, I hear the door chime as he heads out into the night with a flashlight. He wonders around the property until swooping bats send him back inside. Still, no sign of Zorro. That's unusual. He does occasionally seem to roam, but he rarely disappears for more than an hour or so.

Dave crawls back into bed. "What if Zorro's not there in the morning?" I ask.
"He'll be there," says Dave, but I can tell he doesn't mean it. There's much tossing and turning before either of us falls back into a fitful sleep.

5:30am
Dave's alarm wakes us both. Normally, he would hit the snooze button for another 20 minutes before crawling sleepily out of bed; but despite the restless night, he's on his feet right away. I hear him walking through the house-- from window to window. Normally Zorro has a sixth sense about movement in the house. Normally he's at the picture window or the front door meowing the moment one of us is awake. A few minutes later I hear the shower spluttering and I know there's no sign of our lively little cat.

6:20am.
In the kitchen, Dave is pouring cereal, and putting his lunch together.
It's my day off, so I try to doze a bit longer before heading out to the barn to feed the horses. If Zorro's not around by then, I'll know his fate. He never misses a meal.

Then, the sound of a spoon scraping against a cereal bowl stops, and moments later I hear the front door chime. Moments later, I hear Dave walking toward the bedroom. I'm hoping against hope for good news, but I don't expect any. Suddenly, I feel a thud against my side and I open my eyes to see Zorro scrambling across the covers. I look up at Dave and he's smiling. So am I.

Dave: "I truely didn't think I'd see him again".
Me: "Me neither".
Dave: "I went around to all the windows this morning and there was no sign of him. After I got out of the shower, I checked again. When he wasn't there, I figured that was it. He's always up by the time I get out of the shower."
Me: "I know."

I grab Zorro behind the front legs and pull him close to me. He's unimpressed, but I don't care. I hold him tight for a few minutes, then Dave pulls him onto his lap and mauls him some more.

"That's it," I say, "from now on Zorro's an indoor cat." But we both know that will never be the case. As much as Zorro likes to sneak inside, he'd be miserable if he had to stay here all the time. However, I vow to force him into the house at night--every night.

Update on Zorro-- A Visit with the Vet

I didn't get much sleep last night. I spent most of it tossing and turning, worrying about Zorro, and trying to figure out how to get him to the vet.

At 11:00pm, I tiptoed into the mudroom for one last check on him. The bits of dry food I'd placed on his bed earlier were still there. Clearly, he wasn't feeling well. The "normal" Zorro never leaves a scrap of food behind. He barely stirs as I stroke and brush his hair and search for any injuries I might have missed. When I reach his left hind leg, it feels as though bubbles are popping underneath my fingers. It feels like rice-crispies. I start palpating his leg and searching for a cuts, scratches or swellings in that area. I find what I think may be another puncture wound, but Zorro starts growling and squirming in his bed, so I decide to leave him alone for the night.

Friday June 17th
6:00am
I turn off my alarm and drag my weary self out from under the duvet. I head straight for the mudroom. I don't think Zorro's injuries were life threatening, but I'm a worrier and I'm a bit afraid of what I might find on the other side of the door. Thankfully, when I open it, he's there, curled up in his bed, his rib cage rising and falling with every breath. The kibbles are gone and his water dish is empty. He purrs as I stroke his fur. Unfortunately, his leg still has that rice-crispies feel.

I leave Zorro and rush through my barn chores. By 7:30 I'm showered and ready to head to work. But first, I plan to stop at the vet's office and drop off the patient. They told me on the phone last night that I'd have to be there with Zorro for them to examine him, but of course I can't be, because I work. Surely though, if I show up with him, they'll take him and care for him-- for a fee of course. If they won't, then I figure I'll bring him to work with me, and take him to the Truro clinic on my lunch break. It's not a great plan, but if I don't get him antibiotics today, then I'll likely have to pay for an emergency call on the weekend, or wait until Monday.

I open the door to the cat-carrier and Zorro obligingly limps inside, where he curls up contentedly until the truck starts moving. Then he yowls at top volume for the entire 25 minute drive. Finally we arrive at the vet's, just as they're opening for the day. I gently maneuver the loaded cat-carrier through the front doors, then I announce that I don't have an appointment, but I do have an injured cat, and a dilemma.

The woman behind the desk (Kelly, I believe), recognizes me (sadly, I come here a lot). She has me sign a form, then tells me to go ahead and leave him, they'll make sure he is taken care of, and they'll call me with any questions or instructions.

1:00pm
I call the vet to see whether Zorro is ok. He is, and they've given him a long-acting antibiotic so I won't have to force daily doses of medicine down his throat.

4:15pm
Kelly rings up my bill as another girl brings Zorro out to me. They tell me he was pretty easy to work with. I'm not surprised. He never once tried to scratch or bite me last night, despite my poking and prodding. The vet rounds the corner and I ask whether she found the source of the "rice-crispies" on Zorro's hind leg. She gives me a blank look. "His hind leg? I must have missed that." The younger assistant pipes up: "no, we didn't find anything, but remember, he was the cat that didn't like us to touch his hind legs" (now to me, this would be a cue that there might be something wrong with his hind legs, but that's just me). "Well," says the vet, "bring him back here, lets take another quick look." Then she looks at me "this is why we like owners to be here when the animals are examined." Point taken.

A few minutes later, and I'm holding Zorro's cat carrier again. They found puncture wounds on each of his hind legs. They tell me the antibiotics should take care of them. It's time to take him home.


9:00pm
Zorro still spends much of his time in bed, but he has done some mudroom exploring, and he definitely has his appetite back. So, hopefully after a few more days inside, he'll be fine. I just worry that this all might happen again. Before leaving the vet's office, I asked whether there was anything I could do to deter the Tom cat from picking anymore fights. Kelly said no, but she told me that if I'm sure he's a stray, I can bring him in and they'll euthanize him for me. I just don't think that I can bring myself to do that though.

"Vet-Bill" lives up to his Nickname

We'd only had Zorro for a month or so when Dave nick-named him "Vet-Bill". That was mostly because of the heart-stopping way he'd dash and weave between the horses' hooves. It seems our lovable barn cat will live up to that name, though in this case the horses can't be blamed.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

It's 8:00pm and I'm just getting home from work. Dave's away on his annual golf trip with the guys, so the horses have yet to be fed. Jaava whinnies from her paddock as I lower myself from the cab of the truck. But, before I head to the barn, I run into the house to get changed and let out the dog. Looking back, I should have known then that something was wrong.

Muscade greets me with her usual exuberance, and once I throw on some already-dirty clothes, she follows me happily out to the barn. Lilly meets us halfway, meowing with her gravely, lounge-singer voice. I find it odd that she seems so relaxed, so willing to be out in the open. Usually she's on a constant look-out for Zorro and his relentless, though generally harmless attacks. But still, it's not until I'm in the feedroom, scooping out the cat food that it dawns on me that something must really be wrong.

I have the lid off the cat-food container and Zorro's not here. I rattle the food. He's still not here. Zorro has never, ever missed a meal. And now that I think about it, he's always, ALWAYS outside to greet us when we pull into the driveway. It's a reasonably nice evening, and I'm about an hour later than usual, so I think that perhaps he's out hunting--though I'm definitely starting to feel anxious.

Moments later, I open the door to the tackroom (where Lilly eats), and I'm relieved to see him standing in the back corner. My relief doesn't last long though. Instead of making a dash for Lilly's food, he creeps cautiously out of the room. He's clearly limping. His ear is partially flopped over, and there's a tiny hole in it. Across his back, there are many loose clumps of fur. The white of his tuxedo is matted with blood. He drags himself to the feedroom, and instead of leaping with his usual agile exuberance onto the washing machine (which doubles as his food station), he sits at the base of it, looks pitifully at me, and meows mournfully. I gingerly pick him up and gently place him on top of the machine. I fill his dish. Normally, he shoves his nose greedily into the bowl and licks it clean in seconds. Not tonight. Tonight he eats slowly, one piece of dry food at a time.

I leave Zorro momentarily to tend to the stomping, whinnying horses. I hurl grain into their feed tubs, then I pick up my beloved barn cat and whisk him into the house. I lock him in the mudroom to keep him away from Ruffles. I can't clean him up yet, I have a few more barn chores to do first, but I do call the vet. A young-sounding girl (with a voice I don't recognize) answers the phone. I tell her about Zorro. I tell her I'd like to bring him in the morning, and ask whether I should give him some pain killers (metacam) which I have on hand. She covers the receiver and has a muffled conversation with someone else in the office. She comes back on the line to tell me that I shouldn't give him metacam because it will limit what the vets can do in the morning. She also tells me I can have an appointment first thing at 9:00am if I like.

Unfortunately, I have to be at work in Truro (30 minutes from the vet clinic) at 8:45am. I ask whether I can just drop Zorro off (though I'd much prefer to be there with him). She covers the receiver and I once again catch snippets of muffled conversation. When her voice returns with clarity, she tells me that I have to be with the cat when he's examined. "But I have to work" I say. She tells me I can have an appointment at 2:45 in the afternoon if that's any better-- it's not, I work until 4pm. She tells me I can bring him into the emergency after-hours clinic tonight. I thank her politely and tell her I'll clean him up myself.

9:30 pm
I've finished my barn chores and eaten some supper. All the while, Zorro has been curled up in his bed in the mud room. It's finally time to take a closer look at his wounds. I place a dish of water in his bed, beside his head. He takes one sniff then laps up about a 1/4 cup without ever getting to his feet. I set the dish aside so he doesn't get sick from drinking too much. As he lies there, I brush his dull, ratty-looking coat. He tentatively begins to purr. There's a clump of dirt matted into his back. Judging by the smell, I'd say it's vomit. I put down the brush and dip some gauze into a warm prepodyne solution. I sponge the bloodied hair on the right side of his chest until finally I find the wounds: a deep puncture and a less worrisome laceration. Zorro's purr turns into a menacing growl, but he doesn't actually make any attempt to stop me as I cut away the hair closest to the wounds. I curse Tomlin, as the wandering, homeless tom cat is my prime suspect in this attack. He and Zorro have been sparring almost daily lately and their encounters have been getting more and more violent, despite my frequent attempts to frighten Tomlin away

After I'm done with Zorro, he drinks more water, then begins licking his wounds. He's definitely going to need antibiotics. So, one way or another, I'm going to have to find a way to get him to the vet tomorrow.

The Legend of Zorro-- Chapter 3 A dog-like day

Zorro wasn't too sure about Muscade when he first arrived. But it didn't take long before he started tagging along in her shadow.

A few days after Zorro's arrival:
Muscade, our 11 1/2 year old, 60 pound golden retriever/golden lab mix, and I have our morning routine down pat. She escorts me to the barn and supervises while I do my chores. When I traipse to the manure pile with a filled-to-overflowing wheelbarrow, she trots along behind, pausing to sniff the dewy grass at random.

One morning, on my daily pilgrimage to the pile, I turn to see Muscade trotting happily after me, followed by Zorro. I giggle at the thought of our three-species parade. Empty wheelbarrow in hand, I lead the way back to the barn, and to my surprise, our procession remains intact.

As I sift through the horses stalls for more fodder for the wheelbarrow, Zorro chances a rub against Muscade's front legs. Muscade shoots me a worried, "what am I supposed to do about that?" kind of look, and then Zorro seats himself on the floor beside her, mimicking her erect pose. Muscade backs away and takes up a new seat a few feet further back.

She's right to be leery. She and Ruffles have shared a house for nearly five years now. They have an uneasy truce, which Ruffles violates at will, often rubbing against Muscade, then turning to swat her in the face. Zorro has only been here a few days and his brash move has her confused. She's not ready to trust him just yet.

I make my second trip to the manure pile and am thoroughly amused to see that our convoy continues. Myself and the wheelbarrow, a tail-wagging Muscade, followed by a trotting, mewing, black and white kitty cat.

Later, I tack up Maggie and lead her down to the riding ring. As usual, Muscade follows at a safe distance (Maggie is not particularly keen on K9 companionship), and, behind her comes the ever-curious Zorro. As I mount, Muscade takes up her usual position in a sunny spot on the grass outside the ring. Zorro hops on a nearby fence post for a better view. After awhile, a bored Muscade gets up, stretches her legs, and lowers her nose to explore the tall grass along the back edge of the ring. Zorro leaps from his fence-post position and disappears into the tall grass too.

Over the next few days, Zorro's attachment to Muscade grows. The minute we let her out of the house to pee, he leaps from some nearby shrub where he's been hiding, rubs against her, then follows her. He even sits beside her while she does her business. When she comes back to the house, we look out the window to see her sitting patiently at the front door, with Zorro sitting contentedly beside her. We usually have to shoo him away as we allow Muscade back into the house.

On sunny days when Muscade sprawls on the cool grass, Zorro rolls onto his back just a few feet away. On chilly days when Muscade curls up in the sweet-smelling hay, Zorro tries to tuck himself alongside of her furry belly. Sometimes Muscade allows this, other times she chooses to relocate.



Muscade seems a bit bewildered by this cat's over-friendly gestures. I'm never sure whether she really likes her feline companion, but there was one occasion which makes me think she does care for him at least a little bit.

A few weeks after Zorro arrived, some very good friends came to visit. They brought their adorable terrier mix "Chester" for a play date. In his excitement to meet everyone, Chester (on leash) made an excited dash in Zorro's direction. Muscade promptly interjected and inserted herself between the two of them. I like to think she was protecting her little brother (not that there was any need as Chester turned out to be a perfect gentleman).

It's not just that Zorro follows the dog. He is, in fact, very dog-like: He comes when called, he's the first one to greet you when you pull into the driveway, he adores attention, and he follows people everywhere. He's turned out to be quite an entertaining character. Unfortunately, the only family member he can't seem to get along with is the other barn-cat-- Lilly.

The Legend of Zorro-- Chapter 2 The First Night

I felt the need to get a barn cat because the strays which had been hanging around the property seemed to abandon us over the summer. But at least one of them reappeared the night we got Zorro.

August 24th, 7pm
I debate about what to do with Zorro that first night. I don't want to give him free rein on the property just yet (I worry he might take off and never be seen or heard from again), but I don't want to keep him locked in the cage (how would he "do his business")? I consider bringing him into the mudroom at the house, but that might leave him with the impression that the house is his home (which it is not). In the end, I take my chances by letting him loose in the tackroom.

The problem with the tackroom is that it's really just a stall. A stall with walls that reach only partway to the ceiling. It wouldn't take much exploring for a savvy, curious cat to figure out how to get out. And once in the main barn, there are cat-doors and open stall doors that lead to freedom. I take the risk though, and loose much sleep because of it.

I turn Zorro loose on the world at about 7pm. By 8pm, he is nowhere to be seen. I search the barn while shaking a small bag of cat treats and calling his name. Nothing. I wander the property, still shake, shake, shaking the treats-- again, nothing. Tears well up in my eyes. I promised a little girl I'd take good care of her cat, and after just a few hours I've already lost him.

A few minutes pass and I check the barn again. The horses are out, so the barn is still and quiet. Then, I hear it. It's a kind of faint shuffling coming from the hayloft. Moments later, a meowing, dust and cobweb covered, black and white face peeks down from the tiny ventilation space between the barn ceiling and the walls of the hayloft. Jubilation!

He meows and squirms and stretches a paw down toward me. But he can't seem to figure out how to get down. Dave gets a ladder I stand on the highest rung, reaching with one arm to pull the cat toward safety. Zorro is of two minds. He seems to want down, but everytime I get my hands around him, he digs his claws into the wood, anchoring himself in place.

Finally I send Dave up the ladder instead (he's taller). Eventually, with me holding the ladder, he pries Zorro's claws from the rafters and a squirming, frightened cat tumbles down into my arms.

I hug him and feed him and pat him as he purrs and rubs against my legs. Reassured, (and fed), his curiosity takes over, and before we can blink he jumps onto the 4 foot high door and out into the barn.



He's skittish and nervous, but intent on exploring every corner. We leave him for the night. Or so we think.

11:00pm
With our heads barely nestled into our pillows, we're suddenly jolted upright by the banshee-like, high-pitch screams of fighting cats. My first thought is that Tomlin (the tough, scrapy, ugly, street-smart Tom cat) is back and is showing my poor, inexperienced, urban indoor cat what it takes to live life in the sticks. I run outside toward the barn and yell, but I don't see any cats. I check the barn and shake the treat bag again. I walk the dark path toward the riding ring calling his name. But Zorro has disappeared and hasn't carved any Z's in the walls or on the ground to help me find him.

I go back to bed, but I don't sleep. I worry that he's lying somewhere outside, alone, frightened, and bleeding. I toss and turn and worry for hours, thinking that I should have brought him to the house. At 3:30 in the morning, Dave and I jerk upright in bed again. It's that same, spine-chilling, snarling, cat-fighting sound. I throw on a sweater and my crocs and tear outside to the barn. I get there just in time to see Lilly dash out of the tackroom (where I had left full dishes of cat-food for Zorro).

Lilly? I have seen Tomlin around from time to time, but I haven't seen Lilly in over a month. I assumed that she had taken up residents at one of the farms down the road-- which is probably where she came from to begin with. Now I wonder whether she's been here all along, to shy to show herself when we're around. Right now though, I don't care. She has clearly frightened my poor Zorro (who's cowering in the rafters with a small scratch on his nose), and I'm not in a forgiving mood. I chase her outside.

I climb up on the ladder again, but I can't reach Zorro. At least I know he's here and he's alive. In the morning I'll work on getting him down.

The Legend of Zorro-- Chapter 1

After my encounter with the bold, and clearly deranged squirrel playing house in my barn, I began the search for a barn cat-- actually, I began the search for two barn cats. What I ended up with was a live-in stray and a foxy, masked-avenger who defends our property (and his food dish) with great gusto.

Sometime in August 2010
Finding a kitten would be easy. There are so many cute, cuddly, barely-weaned fluff-balls up for adoption on Kijiji that it's no wonder some people end up hoarding dozens of them. I, however, am on a mission, and I won't be deterred by cuteness. The cats I'm looking for just have to be proven mousers with an affinity for the outdoors. If they're scrappy looking and un-cute, then all the better.

As I scroll through the pages, I see several adult cats up for adoption (mostly due to "changes of circumstances" beyond their owners' control), but most are Garfield-like indoor cats, many of whom don't even have claws-- definitely not what I'm looking for.

I decide to place my own ad: BARN CATS WANTED Looking for two outdoor, adult cats-- proven mousers who are preferably spayed or neutered.

The next afternoon, there's a message on my cell phone from someone saying they have the perfect cat for me. I'm busy at work though and I don't get a chance to call back right away. A few hours later, as I'm driving home, my phone rings again. It's another response to my ad. It's a man named David (and no, it's not my husband). He says his family has the perfect cat for me-- and he has been neutered.

He's supposed to be an indoor, family cat, but is adept at slinking out through open doors or windows. While out, his murderous instincts take hold and he savagely attacks both feathered friends and furry fiends. He presents his bloodied prey as trophies at the front door. This has created tension among the bird-loving neighbours and the family is getting tired of trying to defend their cat's honour.

Me: "Out of curiosity, what colour is he?"

David: "He's black with white paws, and a white nose and belly."

That's all I need to hear. I'm in love. I grew up with a kind, gentle, easy-going black and white cat. Whiskers was my faithful companion through 16 years of childhood triumphs, teenage angst, and adult beginnings, and I miss him to this day. I've had a soft spot for "tuxedo" cats ever since, and came very close to adopting one named "Socks" from the SPCA in Moncton a couple of years ago.

David (somewhat apologetically): "His name is Zorro"

I try unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle, and then I make arrangements to meet David, his family, and their cat the next afternoon after work.

I try not to get my hopes up, but I have a good feeling, so I search through some as-yet unpacked boxes and dig out the oversize cat carrier and toss it into the trunk.

It turns out the family lives in a busy, family-oriented subdivision in Eastern Passage. When I arrive, Zorro doesn't waste anytime in trying to bolt out the front door. We manage to thwart his attempts though, and I am instantly, completely in love.

I sit and chat with the lovely family for a good half hour. Within minutes, Zorro leaps onto my lap and curls up. He purrs contentedly as I stroke his shiny black coat. The parents and the two daughters are extolling Zorro's many virtues-- they seem worried that I might not like him. Little do they know that I'm sitting here worried they won't like me enough to let me take him home.

The youngest daughter (Sophie) declares that Zorro's favourite colour is pink. She promptly produces a pink headband/wig combo and puts it on Zorro. He squirms and wriggles, but is otherwise resigned to what I expect is a common ritual. Sophie pats and plays with Zorro and it's clear that she's probably the person who will miss him the most. I feel bad. I try to reassure her that I'll offer him a great home-- and that they're all welcome to visit anytime.

After a bit more chatting, they ask if I've brought a cat carrier. Feeling relieved and excited, I bring it inside from the car. I put it on the floor so Zorro has a few minutes to get used to it before I have to coax him inside. The small metal door is barely open before he shoves his way inside the big green box, sniffing at all the unfamiliar smells. As I ask for the dates of his last vaccinations, and what kind of food he likes, Zorro curls up and falls asleep in the carrier. Sophie gently slides his pink wig/headband into the carrier and tells me I can keep it so he'll feel at home.

Then, just as I'm heading out the door with him, she rushes to the basement and reappears momentarily with a square fleece blanket with a cat paw print. "This is Zorro's", she says, and so I thank her and add it to my new cat's meagre possessions. After that, I'm speechless.

For the drive home, I position the carrier in the middle of the backseat, facing the dash. I have a bag of cat treats handy, and I can easily reach my hand back to appease him if he seems unhappy-- which he does. The 45 minute drive home is filled with regular yeowls of discontent. He's not interested in the treats, but the guttural sounds ease when I shove my fingers into the cage for him to rub against.

Finally we're home and as soon as the car stops moving, Zorro becomes quiet again. I open the car door and point the cage outside so he has a chance to look around before being released into his new habitat. The dog, always happy to see me, rushes to the car, tail wagging, and barking like crazy. Zorro's not impressed. He hisses a bit, and Muscade glances in his direction, but otherwise ignores him.



I leave Zorro like that for half an hour or so, then I move the carrier into the cool, quiet tack room in the barn. I place some food and water inside, but leave him in the cage for another hour or so.

That evening, I let him out of the cage. His first night proves to be a sleepless one for both of us.

To be continued...