Willing Wounded

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ìDonít you touch them ëlectric plugs, Booth Birney!î

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ The svelte gray tabby cat wound around her ankles, tail high with the top at a weathervane point back to his nose, whiskers outstretched and trembling in anticipation of the goodies on the cat platform just above her head.

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ìOkay; weíre ready,î she crooned, lifting the soft furry creature to the grappling point.Ý Booth Birney hooked his remaining left claw into the soft, splintered wood of the feeding platform, hoisted his hindquarters over the edge and began to sniff the fragments of leftover meat piled there. Scarfing down a bite, he poked his nose over the edge at her and purred a thank you before turning back to feed, curling his tail contentedly around himself.

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ Booth Birney volunteered his services as farm kitten one frigid pre-Christmas night as the Notables caroled the businesses of a small Nebraska downtown.Ý Wrapped head to foot in scarves and insulated coveralls; layered in longjohns under Thinsulated snowpants, stuffed into woolly huntersí socks in protective insulated pack boots, ten erstwhile farmers, farmwives, insurance salesmen, bank secretaries, and railroaders lumbered from store to store, wiping drippy cold noses before belting out Christmas favorites in slightly drunken harmony.Ý Startled but compliant last-minute shoppers hugged aisle ends and corners when, finales complete, the group bumped each other jovially, Michelin men squeezing out doors to the next venue.Ý The scrawny, shivering kitten hugging the bookstore doorframe would have been easily missed if the clumsy jostling hadnít landed a heavy boot squarely on one paw.

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ìYOW!î screamed the little pink mouth ringed in pre-ferocious fangs. One jolly farmer, obviously a soft touch, bent double through the thick layers protecting him from the icy air and scooped the furious, steam-spewing small cat into his padded human paw, impervious to frantically scratching claws.

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ ìWhatís this? Another mutt? Well . . .î and in a wink he had stuffed the spitting beast between layers of coverall and sweater.Ý After a lumpy struggle, activity ceased.Ý From the depths of winter warmth just above the belt line came a rattled, rough purr, and a peek inside was met with a suddenly contented stareófeline eyes half-covered but clearly awareóìwhaddayou lookiní at?îÝ There the cat rode without protest through the remaining Christmas cheer and bumpily home much later in the night.

ÝÝÝÝÝ The need for certain, and certainly painful, risk characterized the little gray tabby as he grew into a tough, outdoor-only, farmcat hunter and mousing machine. One winter morning the gray cat did not report for his daily ration of people food and tummy rub; nor did long, loud calls and the blatant bribery of fresh warm Malt-O-Meal dressed with cream bring him from the windbreak. Days of calling and coaxing passed.Ý Farmers are of a practical sort, and a week of no farm cat usually meant just thatóno more farm cat.Ý The other resident mousers gladly ate the gray catís share, and life went on without eulogy for the promising young street beggar who had adapted so well to country living.

ÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝÝ Under the overpass, deep in the draw, the farmer pushed through hard-packed drifts of high-plains snirt (blown snow and dirt) to check his winter traps one morning after the catís absence had become the way things seemed intended to be.Ý One trap, buried under a snarl of compacted tumbleweeds, seemed sprung as he dug his way along the securing chain.Ý He removed the last layer of summer detritus to discover the gray cat, thinner now, looking silently and pleadingly up past his captured left paw.Ý Carefully the farmer released the trap as the cat gratefully scraped his hands with a rough tongue, then once again gathered the limp animal into his winter layers.Ý The paw was a swollen, bloody mess, missing all of its lower toes and most of its fur.Ý Despite his near demise, the cat purred a rattled ìGeez, Iím glad to see youî all the way home.ÝÝÝ

And so the gray tabby earned his name.Ý The real Booth Birney was a special-needs child whose affinity for electric plug-ins was the torment of his guardians and teachersóand ultimately, his downfall.Ý The childís burned and mangled fingersóand his determination to keep right after those ìílectric plugsî told the catís story.Ý One working claw remained after Booth Birneyís foot healed, and work it did, as he regained his position as top farm mouser and eventually, top farm cat. A healthy, even comical respect for all things mechanical contradicted his otherwise active curiosityówhen other, less experienced felines darted frantically from the engine compartments of just-started machinery, Booth Birney would sit calmly, holding up his ìburnedí paw as if in silent testimony to the potential power of these human tools.Ý He never did touch ìthem ëlectric plugsî again, but remained for some time a living a lesson in loyalty and survival for the animal support society at the farm.