Bubba? Is That You?

This morning Lois and I took our usual walk.  It was still dark.  The day before, temperatures had warmed up a bit, melting much of the pretty snow.  Then it cooled again.  The potential for ice patches under every step slowed our progress. 

Just ahead, there was something.  A rabbit perhaps.  No, too big to be a rabbit.  As we drew closer, whatever it was did not scurry away. What is slightly larger than a rabbit and unafraid of an approaching dog and human?  We were just two sidewalk squares away from the creature when identification became possible.  It was an orange and white cat. 

I stopped.  Lois stopped.  The cat just sat there.  For several seconds, we all remained motionless, looking at each other.  Memories of unpleasant encounters with cats flooded my mind.  Like the time I was walking with my late friend and Collie, Wilma.  A cat lounged on the grass next to the sidewalk.  As we passed by, the cat hissed and swung a handful of claws at Wilma.  Then there was the time, big Golden Retriever Hank and I were walking and a cat leaped out of a hedge and tackled Hank.  Hank laid on his back as the cat stood on his chest and clawed at his nose. 

Finally, I said to the orange and white cat, "look pal.  This is one stretch where there isn't much ice.  Let us through."

The cat didn't move.  Just beyond the orange and white cat, a couple more sidewalk squares distance, sat another cat.  This one was black and white.  He looked familiar.

No, there was no tearful reunion with warm hugs.  This black and white cat was probably Bubba, or one of his progeny.  Either way, we weren't friends, not even acquaintances.  Bubba was a feral cat.

It was time to quit the stand off.  I proceeded forward, Lois at my side.  The orange and white cat sauntered away.  Bubba darted away.


Lois and I went home and ate pancakes.






Skim through my rant on feral cats to learn more  About Bubba