I had a friend named Kristine when I was little. We met in Sunday School and quickly became friends because we shared a name and because were wearing the same sweater the day we met. It was red and black with several black bows attached to the front. It was pretty stylin’.
Kristine and I would go to one another’s houses almost every Sunday after church. At her house we’d play outside in the tree fort or their motor home, inside throwing things down the laundry shoot and we’d even go down the street at her neighbor’s house so we could jump on their trampoline.
Kristine’s family had a few farm cats around, and one Sunday, one of the momma kitties introduced us to her new litter. I fell deeply in love with the runt. I felt bad that he was small and I felt even worse when Kristine’s dad explained the likely fate of a runt. I scooped him up, called my parents and begged them to let me bring the little guy home.
I had to do a lot of begging, but I got to bring Runt home. We’d only ever had a pet dog that we called our own. Her name was Jessica. We had all sorts of stray cats and dogs wondering around, but Jessica was ours. She got run over by a cement truck right in front of my brothers and me one day while we were out with our mom who was turning on the irrigation pump. But that’s another story for another time.
Runt was a playful kitty and grew to be one of the larger cats I’ve ever seen. He enjoyed attacking his rainbow colored bear and joining me in a game of “chase your brothers around the house.” He was so playful that my second-grade self decided that his name should be Playful.
Yes. I named a cat a verb. I was in second grade, ok!
Playful, in true farm cat form, would sometimes take his playfulness a little too far. Without notice, he would attack, claws bared and sharp teeth glinting. We quickly learned that he didn’t enjoy being petted anywhere but his head. Once in a while, he’d let us stroke his back, but if you liked your hands, legs and even face scar free, it behooved you to stick to his head only.
Playful, being the lucky animal we called our real pet, was allowed to come in the house from time to time. Other animals had to tough it outside 24/7.
Now, the moment you’ve been waiting for…
If we ran out of cat food, I’d scramble an egg in the micro for Playful. Good golly did he love scrambled eggs. I think he liked how it kept his coat shiny. He’d scarf them right up and then go back outside to hunt gophers, birds and the occasional, unfortunate, bunny.
Playful was in our lives until the fall I went to college. My mom called me at school to let me know that shortly after I left for WSU, Playful disappeared. They hadn’t found him anywhere, but she just wanted me to know. I was ok with that, he was old. However, I did like to pretend he was roaming the Palouse in search of me because he missed curling up, one foot over the other, next to me on my bed. And no one else at home was going to make him a scrambled egg.
I went home for Thanksgiving break my freshmen year. At some point during the week, my brothers were outside raking leaves, and I was inside helping mom in the kitchen. There was a tap on the window by the kitchen sink so I stood on my tiptoes to find the source. It was my bro Matt. He had a sly grin on his face and then he said, “Hey Chris, I found your cat!” As he said “I found your cat” he lifted up the pitchfork. Lying (not speared) across it, legs crossed, was the barely-there (and still furry, sorry) carcass of my cat.
Playful had passed in his sleep, right in the bushes lining our back yard. I can’t really remember my reaction to the cat on the pitchfork…I probably yelped, chuckled and felt a twinge of sadness, especially because my theory of Playful on the Palouse was busted...but I do remember grabbing a shovel and going out in the orchard with Matt to bury the ol’ Playful.
Playful on the Palouse…now there is an interesting movie name.
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