“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.
I left the tree with the last of the plums and a heavy heart. There was no cat in sight.
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Labor Day
Orange, Ca.
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