Chainsaws and Cats

I’m not a fan of roaring engines and the piercing odor of two-stroke fuel, but something about running a chainsaw delights me.

The power of the speeding chain that could cut off my leg as quickly as it cuts through a log.

The mystery of getting it started.

Its attitude.

My chainsaw reminds me of my cat.

My cat, like my chainsaw, comes down from her throne once in a while to purr, but only when she feels like it.

Usually, she can’t be bothered to cooperate.

Her claws, like the chain on my saw, might rip my skin open at any moment.

She only admits my existence when her food bowl is empty.

Yet I spend actual cash on wet cat food to buy her love.

My loyal dogs get dry food.

I try to appease my chainsaw like I attempt to appease my cat, try to buy its purrs with just the right mix of fuel.

I stand just right to get a straight pull on the starter cord.

I grin and cheer when it roars to life, just as I grin and cheer when the cat allows me to cradle her in my arms.

But I know my boundaries. My cat bites if I attempt to pet her.

My chainsaw sets boundaries, too, so I don’t ask it to start very often.

This is my second chainsaw.

My dad gave me my first one.

At the time, I lived in a little shack with only wood for heat.

One bright Sunday, I took my new-to-me chainsaw, fuel and bar oil to the woods to cut firewood. After driving 50 miles to find a grove of downed timber, I couldn’t get the saw to start.

I tugged and tugged on the pull cord with growing frustration.

I let it rest, cooled off, checked the choke and tugged again.

Nothing.

Later, I took the saw to a repair shop, where the expert said he couldn’t get the saw to start either.

When I told my dad of my frustration, he said he never could get that saw to start either.

After that, I bought my own saw.

This one has chewed into its share of dirt and rocks under logs I intended to cut.

I’ve replaced the chain a few times.

I’ve also cut down a few low-hanging branches and leaning trees, although nobody would ever call me a logger.

But my brother is an expert logger, probably because he is a chainsaw whisperer.

So when I attempted to start my feline-imitating saw and it refused, I handed it to Roger.

He murmured a few spells, lit some incense and waved his hands over the saw to release demons and get his juju just right.

Then he pulled the cord.

A mountain lion answered.

Then it pounced on heaps of old posts and boards in my wood pile as if they were innocent spotted fawns curled up and basking in the spring sunlight.

That chainsaw chewed relentlessly.

When I sat it on the ground, it purred like a loving cat.

I knew this wouldn’t last.

Neither cat nor saw would deign to demonstrate loyalty.

The next day, I needed to build an H brace in my stackyard so I loaded the chainsaw on to the flatbed. I cloistered a handsaw behind the seat, just in case.

As I set two posts, I vacillated between optimism and dread over the moment I would attempt to start the chainsaw and slice notches in my posts for the horizontal brace.

I procrastinated, checking wires and stapling up holes in the fence.

Finally, I slipped my foot into the chainsaw handle and tugged the starter rope.

My kitty purred.

Delight washed over my heart.