I grew up outside of a small town with a population of 200. It was a bustling little town in my day with a creamery, a grocery store, a feed mill, an oil company, a bank, two bars, and my family’s business which was a garage that sold and fixed cars along with a gas station. The town also had a train running through it. Before my time, it used to have a passenger train, which grandma told me stories of her sister standing outside to wave good bye to her future husband going off to war.
My parents build their house on about 10 acres of land outside of town. There was a barn on the property and also a foundation for a house. Legend has it that the original house on the property burned down. The property contained several buildings including the barn which was used for lumber and storage. The barn was also the home for several stray wild cats.
There was one scrawny little starving cat that would always eat at our compost pile. One day Mark and Luke thought it would be a good idea to catch this cat. They caught her and locked her in our garage along with the two antique cars. One that I never saw driven and one that my mom would bring out once or twice a year which was a real treat for us to ride in. I fed the wild cat and spoke softly to her, eventually gaining her trust. She knew my voice and I was the only one she would come out for. I tamed her. She was my first “friend” in the home bound years.
My brothers went in the barn and caught 2 more kittens after that. They were little and had to be fed with a dropper. The gray kitten didn’t make it and the black cat got hit by a car. Never fear, he didn’t die. He lost all of his fur and his tail curled up like a pig’s. He earned the name Piggy. He was an ankle biter and the black sheep (cat? pig?) within the cat community that at one time was about 20 cats strong. Matt never bothered the outdoor cats.