Turns out Fennel may not be the bravest or brightest of barn cats.

The experience of losing two of my favorite kittens to wildlife (ok, so since it took 2 times maybe I’m not the brightest of barn owners) taught me a lesson – keep the kittens in the barn at night.

So baby Fennel’s arrival brought a first to Four Sticks Farm – a litterbox in the tack room. Along with a scratching post, a comfy cat bed and an assortment of cat toys not constructed of baling twine. He has access to the attached workshop and to Mace, the ancient barn cat, with outside exploration available, encouraged, mandated, whenever I am in the building.

He’s learned to climb the hayloft ladder to the wonders of dried grass bales, spider webs and barn soffits; to stalk grasshoppers, leaves, snow chunks and Biskit’s tail; to scale trees and hay piles and the sidewalls of the manure bins.

He’s learned to outrun a 70-pound golden retriever bearing down hard with a slobbery squeaker ball.

He’s also learned to race for the safe space of the tack room at the sound of a stranger’s voice, a horse’s sneeze or the hum of the overhead barn door, which limits his feats of athletic achievement to a 50-yard radius of the barn.

While Rowdy and I fill bird feeders in the back yard and spread hay flakes in the back pasture Fennel never ventures far from the barn porch, yowling a plaintive caterwaul that clearly expresses his woe, his fear and his fervent hope that we will be back soon.

With pet doors conveniently located in 2 of the barn doors, our feline friends enjoy 24/7 access to the heated shop, with freedom to explore the great outdoors whenever they choose. This also provides the convenience of using a horse stall when our Minnesota winter freezes the natural litterboxes outside, or when they just want to save a couple steps.

We generally take a couple minutes and a couple treats to teach newbies the mechanics of the magical 2-way plastic flap, and aside from a couple dicey moments during Mace’s super-sized days, the cats have passed through willingly and without incident.

Then along came Fennel. In his defense, we haven’t taken a couple minutes with a couple treats with him, an intentional omission inspired by my desire to keep him confined to the safety of the building, away from the owls, coyotes and cars that prey on innocent, ignorant barn cats.

I also believed that he’d eventually figure it out, especially after witnessing a wrestling match from which Mace escaped Fennel’s seemingly solid whizzer hold by pushing through the cat door directly behind them. Fennel watched his nemesis disappear through the translucent flap, but rather than follow Mace to finish the fight, he sat down to watch me finish my barn chores, perfectly content to wait for me to open the people door, plenty spacious for the both of us to pass through.

So, it seems my efforts to shelter my little orange purrsker from the dangers of the big wide world have left him cornered in a tiny narrow neighborhood, a misguided tabby traveling down the path of good intentions.

But March has arrived, my annual injection of renewed optimism. I’ll open the doors, embrace the sunshine and enjoy the melted muck, the shedded hair and the growing green that is the fun of Four Sticks Farm in spring.

I’ll hope that Fennel finds his brave; that he moves on from this very scary year aware but not afraid, hopeful and not hesitant, confident and not so cautious. I hope he pushes through that little cat door and sees the beauty of his world, trusting that he’s tough enough to make his way, comforted in the knowledge that when he finds himself sitting solo on the barn porch, help is only a caterwaul away.

Though it may come bearing a slobbery squeaker ball.