Cats & Jam

“Cats ‘n Jam”

By Noel Laflin







                                                                                                                                    

August 31, 2001
Friday Afternoon
Orange, Ca.

This has been a summer of missing cats and plentiful plums.  I am reminded of my own absent feline friend each time I’m in the garden picking the bountiful fruit harvest.  Bo has been AWOL for a fortnight now.
 

My garden has always been an animal sanctuary of sorts.  Opossums, raccoons and shrews come to feed and drink once the sun goes down.  The raccoons are a nuisance, as they love to fish in the koi ponds.  More than once, over the years, they have had one hell of a dinner.  They are carnivores and thieves by nature.  Not long ago I was awakened around two AM by loud splashing.  I flipped on the patio light.  A huge raccoon had my prize koi in his paws, as he bent over the pond closest to the house.   I dashed out into the back yard, stark naked, grabbing blindly for any handy rock to throw.  I nailed the son-of-a bitch in the head.  Whether he was simply stunned by the blow to his skull or by the sight of this crazed and naked middle-aged man, scrambling for more rocks and screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs, I will never know.  All I do remember is that he dropped the fish back into the water and made a beeline for the fence.  I got him one more time with a second throw.  He has not returned.  I am sure he has put the word out to his clan to stay away from my little oasis, no matter how attractive the smell of easy fish may be.  Although scarred and no doubt scared by the large claws, the fish survived.

The opossums and shrews are tolerated in the yard, as they are not meat eaters.  They can be loud, however, as they sit by the cat bowl munching away on Friskies.  My cats don’t seem to mind them.  Many times I have shined the flashlight into the yard to see a young opossum and the old cat, Zane Gray, sitting side-by-side taking turns at the food.  The opossums and shrews will also eat most of the plums that have to the ground, thus helping me with the cleanup of rotten fruit.  These guys are okay.
       

Shade from the large trees, including the three plums, help keep my small yard cool during the day’s summer heat.  Normally, the cats (mine and neighbors’) can be found lounging about the mini jungle fortress, saving energy for nocturnal prowling.  But Bo’s latest nighttime prowl is now going on two weeks

As I climb higher into the largest tree, laden with deep-purple Satsumas, I scan the fence line and beyond, hoping to catch a fleeting glimpse of the tardy tabby.  “Where the hell are you, Bo?” I mumble for the umpteenth time.  “Damn!”  No cat in sight.  I continue filling another bag with fruit.

The Santa Rosas were the first to go plum crazy this year.  So much so, that David and I put up sixty-three half-pints of jam from these two trees alone.  All of this started on July Fourth, as I went out to gather some of the beauties for our breakfast.  A few plump ones soon led to a full bag as I realized that the whole damn tree was bursting at the branches.  The younger tree had its own harvest to consider and I had not even gotten to that one as yet.  If the limbs should break, not even an entire army of opossums and shrews would be able to cope with the potential downfall.  Two more plastic shopping bags were soon filled.  “What to do, what to do?” I wondered.   I approached David with a question:  “Have you ever made jam before?”

Recalling past instructions from my mother, we headed off to the store in search of Mason Jars, Pectin and sugar.  Large pots were dug out of kitchen cabinets for the sterilization of jars and lids.  Plums were rinsed, pitted and chopped.  Soon the cooking began and the entire house took on an aroma that took me back forty years in time.  I pictured my mom at the stove, stirring the fruit, adjusting the heat, lining up steaming, hot jars for the filling of the dark purple liquid.  My mother’s jam was renowned throughout the neighborhood.  I would be happy if this batch just set up all right.  We were pleasantly rewarded.  Not only did it gel properly, it tasted divine.  My mom would have been proud.  Small firecrackers, in honor of the day, bordered the labels on the jars.  It was, and continues to be, a hit with friends, neighbors and co-workers.

Bo was around during this time - although in the past he frequently was one for taking off for a day or two.  Hell, once he set an all-time record, at sixteen days away, before he sauntered back into the garden one morning, rubbing against my leg and purring as if nothing were wrong.  He had taken his leave of absence a day or two before Halloween, as I recall.  By mid November, I had nearly lost hope of his return.  I was convinced he had been catnapped for some gruesome, sick sacrifice, the likes of which one reads or hears about during All Hallows Eve celebrations.  I was in a sad state of mind already as his disappearance had followed the death of my mother just two months prior over Labor Day weekend      

So it was that I had just about given up on the lad when he came home.  No explanation, at all.  He did not look the worse for wear.  If anything, he looked well fed and cared for.  Did Bo have a new family somewhere about the neighborhood?  I have often wondered about that and asked him that too.  But he refuses to answer.  All I’ve gotten in reply is a rub to my leg and a push of his head against my hand. Of course he’s always hungry upon his return.  I have bribed him with canned food, hoping to keep him at this home for a while.  It’s worked in the past  . . . for a while.

Since that legendary Houdini disappearing act four years back, I have paid little attention to his wanderings, as he always makes it back to the garden and into the house for a long nap.  If he weren’t fixed, I’d swear he was just whoring it up somewhere.  But he’s approaching the old record, to be measured in weeks now.  Labor Day is nearly upon us.  I am concerned. Old fears begin to taunt.  A deep sadness over the loss of mom four years ago and the death of a beloved puppy twenty years ago this coming holiday also haunts me.  “Not now, Bo, not this weekend, please,” I whisper to the garden spirits above.

Peaches came our way between the harvesting of the two plum varieties and Bo’s most recent disappearance.   A  friend's tree went wild this summer also.  Twenty-seven half-pints of the golden-cast liquid amber were put up in our kitchen during the heat of August. “Tastes just like peach pie,” my good friend, Seritha, noted.  She was right.  When spread on a warm English muffin or any kind of toast or hot biscuit, the distinct taste of peach pie smacked the taste buds.  Whereas the plum jam was tart and tangy, this was an out-and-out assault of sweetness.  Oh, mom, you would be so proud!  There was more praise from neighbors, friends and co-workers.

And so I found myself measuring summer days by picking fruit and putting it to the boil.  The Satsumas were too good for jamming, however, and were eaten fresh.  I could have sold the suckers, judging once more, by the reaction of friends, neighbors and co-workers (fellow salesmen, in particular).  Damn, they were good.  That’s what took me to the top of the tree again, the final day of August, (the fourth anniversary of my mother’s death) reaching for the last of the plums while scanning for a missing cat.  Noting the melancholy date and sudden lack of Bo once again put me in a wistful mood.

I recall that Bo wasn’t the only cat to have disappeared this past summer.  My neighbor, Gail, lost one of her cats in late spring.  Homemade fliers giving a description of the lost guy were distributed throughout the neighborhood.  He was never found.  Then Krysten's cat, Pepper, abruptly vanished six weeks ago too.  More fliers and signs were posted.  The calico never made it back home.  Some of us believe that coyotes may have done them both in.  They are about as high on my list as raccoons.  They have moved boldly into our neighborhood.  Water and small prey are plentiful.  These scavengers are thriving on the pet world.  Can’t blame ‘em.  They are hungry, after all.  Intellectually, I understand.  Emotionally, I am pissed off, especially when it’s our pets that are in danger.

I left the tree with the last of the plums and a heavy heart.  There was no cat in sight.

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September 3, 2001
Labor Day
Orange, Ca.

Without a word of an apology, Bo returned to the garden this morning.  He looked none the worse for wear.  I brought him into the room and gave him the third degree.  It did not faze him.  He only pushed against my hand, suggesting that the ear scratching should continue.  I stopped the petting only long enough to open a can of good food and lay before him.  The bribe ought to work for a while  . . . maybe.  Meanwhile, we humans had toast and jam for breakfast.