Our dog, Swamp Thing, charged at the stranger expecting to show his superiority. The vagabond stood his ground and gave the mutt a few well-placed swats to the snout. Amazingly, the brute sat quietly and allowed the stranger to rub up against him. They formed an immediate bond. I decided to name our bohemian visitor Van Helsing, after my favorite vampire hunter. It seemed appropriate to expect him to defend the farm from Wererats and Vampire cats.
The problem was I promised my husband not to take in another stray. Luckily, like a snake charmer the vagrant won his heart as well. At first, I fed him at the barn, trying to keep my emotional distance. I had been through this before. Strays come and go frequently on the farm. I was a little mystified since the full details of Van Helsing’s past were a mystery. I couldn’t imagine someone getting rid of such a friendly cat.
As the weeks went by his food dish ended up on the side porch, next to the kitchen. His once sleek form got rounder and his coat was lush and beautiful. When I walked the dog, the cat followed. They were a macabre duo, the dog white as snow and the cat black as pitch. Every so often Van would stop and roll over so I could rub his fat belly.
Although allergies made it impossible for our family to keep a cat inside the house my husband broke his own rule. He made a spot in the basement to keep our new friend safe from the frigid December nights. His make shift caravan was complete with a thick red cushion for the gypsy prince to sleep on.
True to his wandering nature, Van Helsing was unpredictable. Sometimes we would call him and he would run from the midnight shadows and into the warmth. Other times he was gone for a day or two at a time looking for adventure. Each time he was away, we wondered if we would ever see him again.
One night he came home with a gash on his ear and a bite on his neck (true story). We assumed it was a catfight and administered Neosporin to the injuries. As the weeks went by, he stayed away longer and lost weight. When he came home one freezing night in January the left side of his face was swollen. We called our Vet and got him the first available appointment.
That night he crept slowly into his hideout beaten by his enemies. I tried tempting his appetite with tuna but he had no desire for food. I gently put him on the cushion thinking he would be fine after some rest. The next morning he could not find the strength to get up. I sat with him, completely horrified at the prospect of him dying. I cried and prayed he would make it to the Vets. I wanted to believe there was an antidote.
Before sunset, one of God’s little creatures died on his red pillow as quickly as he appeared. Some unseen virus stole the wanderers’ life prematurely. We had a little ceremony to commemorate his short life with my grandson and the dog. Neither seemed to feel the same loss we did. Afterward we buried him by the barn where we found him. I like to imagine him running through vast fields in the October sun. I see him playing with lions and lambs in a beautiful wilderness where there is no disease, death, or decay.
I was raised a Catholic and the Nuns were firm believers that animals have no souls and would not be in heaven. I disagree. Watch this video and make your own decision.
