No April Fool

Seems all I had to do was put Fennel’s fears into the blogosphere, as within two weeks of my post about the timid tabby he met me on the barn porch in the pre-dawn darkness for morning chores. I’ll confess to a moment of regret for what I’d wished for, as I realized he’d possibly been out all night, facing the perils of the country after dark.

My discomfort deepened with the observation that his newfound knowledge was limited to one-way travel through the feline flaps.

Shortly after I wrote about Fennel’s fear of the cat door, he figured it out. Initially, he went from workshop into barn, and I’d find him in the hayloft when I came down in the early a.m. He didn’t seem to realize that there was another door that opened from the barn to the outside world, which was fine with me.

But being a cat of cautious curiosity, he eventually figured out the second door too. Though just as with the first, it seemed to be one-way trip, and in this case, the way back in added the peril of getting past eight equine feet that might move in any direction at any moment.

He figured out how to get out, but he did not know how to get in unless you count waiting outside for Lisa to come down and open the people door. Which I do not.

But here he was, alive and well so I gave a nod to the gratitude gods and opted to think positive, take the small victory and pray for a steep learning curve.

However, on April 1^st, there was no Fennel. Not on the porch or in the barn or on the lawn chairs or in the hay loft. He didn’t come when I called him out back, in front, or alongside the barn. He didn’t come when I shook the feed bin and rattled the kibble onto his plastic plate. No joke.

It made for a sad day at Four Sticks Farm to be sure, even though I’ve learned to let go a little of the urge to ride herd too tightly on the barn cats. They keep the barn rodent-free, and in return they get love, food, love, shelter, love, an annual road trip to the vet clinic, and the privilege of roaming the wild kingdom that surrounds our home, where every exploration runs the risk of being the terminating trek. We’ve lost some to cars and more to fates that shall forever remain a mystery. But other than the 3-day adventure of Mocha, the Kwik Trip Kitten, which I’ll save for another post, once a cat doesn’t show up at a regularly scheduled time, s/he never does show up. It’s heartbreaking but it’s reality.

So when Fennel did not appear to demand his Good Night kibble ration, I knew I needed to open his space in my heart and fill it with thanks that he’d been part of our feline family. But just in case, I didn’t slide the barn door completely closed as is the norm, but rather left it open about 6 inches, just enough for a little fraidy cat to fit through in the dark of the night.

Which was apparently what he was waiting for, because he greeted me in the barn the next morning. Real casual, jumping down the hayloft ladder like he always does, like I wouldn’t even notice his Day of Disappearance. Of course, joy beat irritation, so he escaped a serious scolding and instead endured several minutes of being scooped in my arms with smooches and head scratches.

Apparently, he also escaped something not so pleasurable though, as I noticed a smear of dried blood on the tip of his tail, a barn cat badge of honor. I’ll never know just how he spent his April Fool’s Day vacation, but I do know that since his return he’s moved to the hayloft for most of his day. He acknowledges my presence at the top of the ladder every time I go into the barn. Every time.

And on Easter Sunday he passed another rite of passage – his first rodent kill, properly presented for my approval. Halleluiah.

So Fennel has faced his fears and found his calling.

I know he’ll do his job; he’ll do his exploring; he’ll find his way home.

And I’ll leave the barn door open.