Recently, I hope you enjoyed my columns sharing stories about a bookstore feline in The Chronicle.
Not sure where that idea came from?
I'd like to update my readers with my true and memorable history with another kitty.
One summer afternoon about 15 years ago, a small cat walked slowly and painfully down the alley behind our house and into our lives. She was a striped tabby kitten, hardly bigger than my fist.
She was thirsty, had the distended belly of a starved creature and was suffering from a nasal infection, fleas and worms. A 9-year old girl from across the alley spotted her first. She picked her up and described how she had seen another neighbor's 4-year-old boy abusing her in ways that I won't go into here.
She then explained that her older sister was allergic to cats and they couldn't keep her. The last thing my wife and I needed was another cat underfoot. We already had four. But, as you've probably guessed, by the time each of us had held her and thought of the situation she would return to if we did nothing, there was no question as to what our next move would be.
Heck, we were already calling her "Bitsy" because of her size (but also in honor of the neighbor girl, Elizabeth).
So we took her into the house, also determined to — at the very least — lie about it if questioned by the boy's parents. They never did ask, by the way.
The veterinarian bills began piling up as Bitsy slowly improved. We kept her in the house and out of sight until the neighbors were eventually evicted and we felt it was safe to let her outside.
The outdoors were her milieu.
Gardening intrigued her immediately. She took the simple act of pulling a weed to be an invitation to play. I found myself having to be extra cautious with the pruning and lopping shears because any rustling of foliage immediately became a reason for her to pounce in the direction of the sound.
As the years passed, she lost most of her kittenish ways. Whenever I knelt to clear a heavy infestation of weeds, she'd settle herself solidly against my leg and I'd find myself spending as much time softly stroking her fur as I did removing the weeds.
I did not mind.
Our original family of cats, including Newman, my popular bookstore cat, all eventually succumbed to age and other ailments, to be replaced by other cats or kittens, all of whom Bitsy, with a proprietary air, still only barely acknowledged — and then it was usually only to remind them that they were invading her space.
Somewhere along the line, her growth made it clear that her name "Bitsy" was no longer an apt description. Her actions and demeanor always made me think of her as a him. Mostly, though, I always knew that whenever I'd garden I'd have a faithful companion at my side.
And so, anyone of my age who can still remember listening to a certain radio program featuring a masked rider riding a white horse named "Silver" will understand why, for the rest of her "adult" life, she became known to me — and to others in our neighborhood — as "Kemo Sabe.”
•••
Bill Moeller is a former entertainer, mayor, bookstore owner, city council member, paratrooper and pilot living in Centralia. He can be reached at bookmaven321@comcast.net.
