Mace turns 17 today, big doin’s in the barn cat world.
His hips lean a little to the right when he walks, and his head slants a smidgeon to the left, but all four paws stay on the single-track path, that invisible tightrope on which felines travel.
He gets a little help from a little Cosequin® chewable, but daily life is Mace’s natural fitness center, keeping him strong enough to climb the ladder to enjoy the sultry solitude of the hayloft that is his haven, spry enough to evade the horses’ hooves as they enter and exit the barn, and speedy enough to defend against The Dog, otherwise known as Ruffian, who delights in, literal, feline pursuits.
Mace joined the family as an 8-week-old sweet-faced kitten, happy to be here, eager to be part of the pride. Having been literally born in a barn, he understood the expectations of his employment, no training required, and from the beginning, displayed his trophy rodent remnants on the barn floor to make sure I knew he was putting in his hours.
Adolescence took a toll as the handsome brown tabby suffered a few scraps, scrapes, abscesses, infections, and the veterinary care that went with them. My happy little purrsker, earned a red flag on his chart, notably articulated by the one dvm who, after conducting an abbreviated examination of a very angry Mace, voiced the thoughts of many unable or unwilling to say it out loud, when he told me that if I needed more medication after this initial dose, I could come in the office to pick it up “but you don’t need to bring the cat.”
Message received.
He healed up that time and a couple more after that, the latest being 6 years ago when Mace needed surgical intervention to clean out a deep muscle wound and came home with aftercare instructions and a substantial supply of pharmaceuticals designed to ensure his medical needs could, and would, be met by the Home Health provider who had the courage to be his owner.
All involved lucked out when my horse vet happened to be in the barn for a Wellness visit with the equines when the drain sutured into Mace’s hip was ready to be removed, and he offered to do the honors, a process completed quickly and quietly as I held a purring Mace, perfectly content in his own space.
He earned his Crabby Cat moniker, and over the years a few self-styled cat whisperers, warned of his tempestuous temperament, insisted they knew how to tame the savage beast. They were wrong, but he was restrained, showing just enough turbulence to broker his release without leaving a mark.
Maybe that crossness served him well as a long-term survival skill. He’s tolerated goldens, a greyhound, a poodle and assorted visiting others. He endured barnfuls of little girls reading books, brushing horses, creating art and sharing snacks. He’s shared hay bales, cat beds and deck chairs with Basil, McCormick, Chai, Oregano, and now Fennel, getting along with more grace than growls.
Resilience is a beautiful thing and he’s figured out how to get along or move along – usually to the top of the hay loft.
He still shows up, appreciating a little affection and casual conversation along with his kibble; he still contributes to the cause, working the gardens bordering the barn to rid them of the rodent riff raff; and he still sits on the barn porch, soaking up the sun, watching the world go by in peace.
From Four Sticks Farm 