Monday's Poetry: "Cat Moving Kittens"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator

Last week was one of substantial change for the cat population here at Rock's Roost.  A week ago today eight felines were in residence at The Roost, but by the end of the week that number was down to a more manageable three.   The five kittens that were born in the chicken coop on April 6th all found homes, leaving only their mother, Fiona, and their two older brothers to keep the varmints at bay here at the farm.

I had promised three kittens to the Amish ladies who clean my house, and had plans to give them at least three - more if they could be talked into it - when they arrived on Thursday morning for the bi-monthly housecleaning.  The little kitties had never strayed beyond fifteen feet or so of the coop, so I assumed it would be easy to collect a few.  That particular morning, however, they had gone on a walkabout and discovered the barn - and when we tracked them there they all scattered and hid!  The ladies left disappointed on their farm tractor with an empty pet carrier.

That evening three of the youngsters gathered where I feed the big cats, and I quickly captured them. The Amish ladies had stated a preference for black kittens, and I managed to snag two black ones and the striped kitten.  I delivered them to a beautiful Amish farm before anyone had an opportunity to change their minds.

Saturday the other two were out on the prowl, a black and a yellow, and I grabbed them up and headed to a local feed store where I sat in the parking lot waiting for just the right person to come by. The first fellow to show an interest appeared to be an old farmer who wanted them for barn cats.  I assured him that they were barn cats and that their mother was a proven mouser.  He was ready to take them when I promised to throw in the plastic tub that they were sitting in, but his wife talked him out of it.

Then an older lady came by and gave me a lecture on the importance of finding the right adoptive family.  She said that there were people on Facebook advertising for kittens to use in live traps to catch groundhogs, raccoons, and opossums.  Her deranged babble made me glad that I had forsworn Facebook several years ago.   Next some friends stopped by just to visit, but they did not want any cats.  And finally, after I had been there about an hour, the old farmer who had been there first returned, after apparently having talked his wife into letting him have the little cats.  When I again offered him the plastic tub to use as a carrier, he scooped the whole business into his car - and my day was complete!

I didn't ask, but he did not look like the type of person who would use kittens for bait in live traps.  I also did not ask my Amish friends why they wanted black cats.  Some things are just none of my business!

Today's selection, "Cat Moving Kittens," is by contemporary poet Austin Smith and was included in his collection entitled Flyover Country.  The poem is about a farm cat that has a litter of kittens in a field beside a bale of hay.  Humans discover the newborns and touch them, causing the mother to stealthily move the babies to another location.  By the time the kitties are seen again, they are wild young farm cats.

I found Fiona's most recent litter on their second day - and even touched them - but the experienced mother felt no compunction to move her babies.  And by the time I finally gathered them up for adoption, she seemed more than happy to see them go.

There is a time to give birth, and a time to send the offspring on down the road.  Fiona saw no need to hide her kittens, and she seemed to understand from experience that I would take care of them.

But the cat that Austin Smith describes did not have that level of confidence in her humans - whom the poet cleverly equates with "the state."


Cat Moving Kittens
by Austin Smith

We must have known,

Even as we reached

Down to touch them

Where we'd found them

Shut-eyed and trembling

Under a straw bale

In the haymow, that

She would move them

That night under cover

Of darkness, and that

By finding them

We were making certain

We wouldn't see them again

Until we saw them

Crouching under the pickup

Like sullen teens, having gone

As wild by then as they'd gone
Still in her mouth that night

She made a decision

Any mother might make

Upon guessing the intentions
Of the state: to go and to

Go now, taking everything

You love between your teeth.