Being an incurable cat fancier, I thoroughly enjoyed Alice Leeds’ Nov. 14 article regarding Buster, the gregarious and charming kitty. I am slowly writing a book on barn cats. When I first arrived on the family farm, managed by my uncle, Merritt Chalker, the most notable feline was a surly old female my uncle had aptly named “Grandma Growl.” She would well have worn a sign, “pet at your own risk.” She drew more blood than a busy nurse.

Eight years later, I asked Merritt how old she was. He said that she had strayed onto the farm 20-odd years before, showing her age at that time. Not long after that, a small young female stray decided the farm was home, despite G.G.’s eviction attempts. My older, late brother, Robert, who had his nose in a book every chance he got, named her “Minerva.” It was only later I learned that Minerva was a goddess of war. She could hold her own in claw-to-claw combat but favored to hide inside of a small hole in the milk house foundation, giving Grandma a face full of claws, if she decided to invade.

In 1954, I noted that the old girl, for the first time in her life, had not gifted us with any kittens. Shortly afterward, I walked into the barn and found her lying dead on the threshing bay floor. Since cats generally wander off to die, I concluded that it was a heart attack. She had to be well into her thirties. I wondered how much longer she would have lived if not for the stress from her rival.

Her longevity tends to confirm the claim that raw milk and raw meat provide the ideal feline diet. At milking times, the cats had their fill of delicious golden Guernsey milk — having the highest butterfat content of any of the common milking breeds. The numerous rodents commonly found around farms provided the raw meat. 

Shortly afterward, the demise of the dearly beloved big old barn came with the 100-plus mph winds of 1954 Hurricane Carol. I was shattered.

Merritt had creative names for most of the cats. One incredibly agile cat with no hint of a tail, was “Less,” short for “Tailless.” When he ran out of other creative names, one became known as “Hey You.” I don’t remember the name of a small female who was missing for a week. When we had given up on seeing her again, she arrived home with a mangled front paw — clearly due to an irresponsible trapper. The snow on the ground must have kept her hydrated. She was quite unfazed by her experience and resumed tagging along on long walks around the farm, leaving small blood spots in the snow. Merritt didn’t believe in vet care for cats. The club paw healed up soon.

Fast forward about forty years, when a small male kitten apparently got stepped on by a cow. He dragged his back legs around, seemingly undaunted. An ex-girlfriend called him the draggin’ ass cat. Draggin became his name. He healed up rather quickly. Since he was unable to climb, we provided a better view of the world by carrying him around on our shoulders. He expressed his appreciation with his exceptionally loud purr. When he was adequately healed, we started tossing him in the air, to his great delight. The tosses got greater and greater, with his purr becoming inaudible with the altitude and resuming as he descended. Then we started tossing him back and forth, increasing the distance to an amazing amount. He loved it. It was a sad day when he demised from apparent antifreeze ingestion prior to maturity.  

Farm cats come and go all too quickly. I wish Buster an exceptionally long, happy and healthy life.

Joe Gleason

Bridport