In the laundry room, in a box, on a shelf, lies a bottle of merlot, set there by the resident pseudo-sommelier, with instructions to leave it undisturbed, allowing it to age to perfection.

That was more than 13 years ago.

In the barn, in the hayloft, on a bale, lies a testy tabby, settled there by his feisty feline self, with instructions to be left undisturbed, and no promise of mellowing with maturity.

That was also, more than 13 years ago.

Mace conducts his barn cat business with simple, straight-forward sensibility, and his 14 years of pest control service shatters the Four Sticks Feline Lifespan record. Runner-up Basil held her own around here long enough to endure her 12^th annual veterinary care visit, just days before she wandered off to disappear in the Great Beyond.

Basil and Mace both came from a boarding stable down the road, part of a long line of barn cats, born with the skills to stalk, stop and stifle rodents, birds, and trespassing felines. Both quiet and unassuming, Basil was shy but social, Mace is reclusive and reserved.

HIs classical tabby stripes and white accessories make Mace the handsomest cat to grace this place yet, though a few years of over-indulgence at the Purina Pub led to a period of cat-door navigation challenges, which led to a couple horizontal hairless strips that left no camouflage for his bulging belly.

And an abscess incident 3 years ago exposed his bare backside, shaved to the skin for deep debriding of inner muscle tissue, with a rubber drainage tube sewn in for added attraction, presenting a less than pretty picture.

That abscess surgery cost more than generally allowed by the Four Sticks Farm Financial Committee, particularly with his advanced age factored into the formula. But when the vet explained the work needed and the estimated expense, I said “Yes” without hesitation and without consulting George, who would’ve selected Option “No” to invasive surgery on an 11-year-old barn cat. Fortunately for all involved, George was absent that day, so was not consulted and was, therefore, outvoted 1 to 1.

Mace survived the surgery, recovered without incident and true to his self-sufficient nature, pulled out the drain tube himself, at just the right time. No unnecessary vet visits for this busy pest patroller.

Despite his good looks and admirable work ethic, Mace sits pretty far down the list of favorites at Four Sticks. The girls who came for Books in the Barn dubbed him Crabby Cat, a title justifiably bestowed and frequently validated. His limit for accepting affection was about .7 seconds, after which he’d hiss, growl, and scramble for release.

His chart at the clinic is red-flagged and during visits our veteran veterinarian, well-versed in the limited window of inoculation opportunity, gets straight to the tasks at hand and saves the small talk for later.

But old age has effected a reduction in the weight and a respite from the animosity. If I’m now in the barn for more than a brief Biskit/Chicago feed, body scan and manure pickup, and if neither Rowdy nor Fennel are in the vicinity to execute a full speed full body slam, old Mace will saunter over and wait patiently for me to sit on the hay pallet so he can climb on my lap, where he’ll sit for as long as I’ll dole out the love. In exchange he offers a barely-there purr, its potency possibly diminished by years of dormancy.

Only 14 years to mellow this cat. Might be time to check that conversion into wine years.

Cheers!