Puma-Princess

Almost exactly four years ago, a kitten dragged a hind leg out from under the trailer at the barn.

Her three siblings were too wild to join her.

She would die without help.

My nurse sister-in-law and her sons were visiting.

We all took turns carrying the tiny kitten to the house.

By the time we arrived, we had diagnosed her missing hip.

The boys snuggled her while she nursed a bottle.

Never before had I allowed a cat into the house.

My daughter, Abby, took a couple of night shifts when Scooter yowled her starvation.

In self-defense, I bought a litterbox.

Defying the odds, Scooter the Puma-Princess kept growing.

Learning her puma moves, Scooter raced around the house with no inkling of her disability.

About three years ago, I took Scooter to be spayed.

The vet looked at my disabled cat, looked me in the eye and said “this cat can’t have kittens.”

“I know,” I replied. “That’s why I don’t want her to get pregnant.”

A hundred bucks later, Princess Scooter was protected.

Three days later, she figured out how to claw and climb her way up onto my bed.

Not needing a shredded quilt, I laid a sacrificial blanket on top.

Next, she discovered her favorite throne on the recliner headrest.

When sunshine warmed that spot, her lady-in-waiting was not permitted to move her highness.

More sacrificial blankets were laid.

That summer, she figured out how to push the screen door open. Every day, the screen door slammed randomly whenever Scooter the Puma wanted to go outside.

Scooter knew she had three jobs.

She dominated every dog that dared to appear, rising tall on three legs, arching her back and hissing.

She explored the hidden corners of the shop, coming back covered in grease and demanding a royal entrance for her afternoon tea.

She pointed to the cupboard whenever the mouse trap had worked.

About two years ago, I pulled into the driveway, stepped out of my truck and heard the oddest combination of indignation, terror and contempt for the lack of competent assistance around this joint.

Scooter had climbed a backyard tree.

I leaned the ladder against the tree.

Scooter climbed higher.

I grabbed her dangling leg.

She hissed.

I pulled.

She landed on my shoulder and hung on.

I headed down the ladder for antiseptic.

Not long after her first climb, Abby and I searched everywhere, but could not find Scooter.

The next morning, she was curled on the porch.

When I picked her up, she growled.

I laid the Puma-Princess on a dog bed in the kitchen and brought a bowl of water.

She couldn’t lift her head.

I fed her on that dog bed for four days, until I could locate and medicate the puncture wounds.

An owl or a hawk had misjudged the ferocity of his next meal.

The screen door kept slamming each day, but at night I closed the door that required opposable thumbs to open, caging the Princess in her castle that now included a pillow on my bed.

My self-image did not include cats, but for some unexplainable reason I kept acting like a crazy cat lady.

I even purchased wet cat food for her highness.

What was happening to me?

That year, Scooter kept my expectations realistic, thank goodness.

She ran when I tried to pick her up.

Every time I pulled her out of a tree, she clawed me.

She hissed, except when I fed her.

I was allowed to pick her up only if company were here.

Last week, Scooter didn’t climb on my bed.

Three days later, I discovered that a hawk or an owl had a fine supper.

My Puma-Princess won’t return.