Beatrix Potter: Cats in the Window (1909)

" … those fading days may never go away."

Before I move these stories away from Takoma Park, I must recount one of the most fulfilling activities I engaged in there. Our Sherman Street neighbor and benefactor Clair had been involved with a group that cared for the town's many feral cat colonies. He recruited me to take a turn. Rather than try to domesticate these critters, these people trapped and neutered them, then returned them to the wild, returning daily to feed them forever. Each volunteer agreed to feed a certain number of cat colonies for specific days each week. I decided to service five drops, four days each week. I was responsible for buying and dropping the food off each designated day.

The colonies lived invisibly. One hid behind a grocery store while another lurked in someone's backyard. Depending upon the census, I'd march in and drop a scoop of dry food and a few cans of wet food, refresh the water container, and then leave. I never saw the inhabitant of one of the drops, though the absence of food when I returned strongly suggested that somebody stopped by there. Clair and I speculated that it might have been a raccoon, but we were bound to continue feeding until the one who requested the drop canceled their order. The other colonies showed themselves, if hesitantly, for these were true ferals. They were in no way friendly. Lingering too long or attempting to get too close reliably drove them away.

This was selfless work but not without its rewards, especially when one of The Muse's co-workers brought his family on station with him. They found a home close to ours. They had a four-year-old named Daniel. My Exiled existence lacked kid energy, so I suggested to Daniel's parents that he might enjoy coming out to feed the ferals with me. I'd dutifully show up at the appointed hour and install the car seat, and off we'd go. I tend to get tuneful when driving with a kid in the car, so Daniel and I, over time, made up a whole catalog of truly terrible traveling tunes to sing to each other between stops. We named each colony and gave each one a song of their very own, which we'd sing, siren-like, when we stopped to drop their food. We imagined we attracted them with our singing, and maybe we did.

We named one of the colonies Da Goils because two lovely, long-tailed ladies lived there. They'd slink out of the shrubbery, coiling their tails together, then crouch down to share their supper. They seemed perfectly harmonious and happy. We'd drop their food and then leave, heading off to the next colony, changing tunes as we drove. Those were great times! Daniel's dad had taught him The Grand Old Duke Of York, and he loved singing that song. I'd mangle the lyrics, which frustrated Daniel. "Oh, the Danged Old Yuke of Dork …"

"No, no, David," Daniel would respond. "That's not how it goes." We'd go around and around, convincingly pretending to be frustrating each other but giggling all the way. Once we finished, I'd reprise another old favorite: Don't Go Pooping In The Car Seat (I Don't Care Who You Are), or a few verses of the ever-popular Upchuck, The Barfing Puppet (He Is Everyone's Friend), a tune I penned about the giant inflatable dancing puppet in front of a cut-rate furniture store we passed on our rounds. I'd drive Daniel home, swearing him to secrecy so he wouldn't spill the beans about how I'd attempted to twist his mind, and the world would be fine for another day in Exile.

Daniel's in high school now, and our worlds have moved far apart. The lovely people I met when Exiled were similar to comets. They shined brightly for a time before exiting our shared solar system, just like I did for them. Unlike the neighborhoods where The Muse and I grew up, where everyone stayed put for decades, Exiled places seem in continual motion. My neighbors on Sherman mostly still live there, though Clair moved to a retirement community where he died a few years later while I was still Exiled. Our goofy neighbor Kay, who lived up the street in the house she'd grown up in and, frustrated with traffic on our cut-through street, used to stand on her curb wearing an orange vest and construction helmet, aiming a hair-drier at passing speeders. She would slow them down, too, but the speeders always returned as soon as she returned inside.

Those days will always be memories now, inaccessible except in remembered melodies that still haunt me. Put me behind the wheel when I'm feeling frisky, and I hope I'll never be above favoring those present with a few verses of those old favorites: Don't Go Pooping In Your Car Seat (I Don't Care Who You Are) or Upchuck The Barfing Puppet (He Is Everyone's Friend). In those ways, at least, those fading days may never go away.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Exiled, #PureSchmaltz