What happens when a cat and a hunter both lay claim to the same prey? In honor of Thanksgiving, here is a brief story about a cat, a hunter, and a turkey. Excerpt is from The Cats Locked Me in the Well House: Anecdotes and Memories from a Lifetime with Cats .
Amahl and the Hunter
Amahl was solid black and came by night, thus named out of Amahl and the Night Visitors. His stay on the farm wasn’t long, because as he grew from a little black kitten to a large black cat, he became cat aggressive, even though he was neutered, as are all of my farm felines. Finally, reluctantly, I had to rehome him to be a single cat. With people, he was loving, purring, and amiable; he just wanted undivided attention, unwilling to share with any other animal. However, in his brief months on the farm, he starred in a short skit one afternoon that still has me laughing when I think of it.
My office where I sat typing in the old house had a window that faced out onto a huge pasture, acres and acres of grass with woods along one edge. This didn’t belong to me (though I will confess coveting a few acres of it to parallel my farm), but the cats were convinced firmly that it belonged to them. They prowled through that field and hunted in it. It–and its game–were rightfully theirs, they believed. And thereby hangs a tale.
I was typing one afternoon when movement out the window caught my eye. A man emerged from the woods and started across the field. His head was up, his posture straight, his gun resting on his shoulder. The body language was a walking caption. “I have hunted! I am a man!” He angled across the field toward the gate.
Shortly into his victory walk, his non-gun hand, which was hanging down at his side just at the level of the tall grass with his catch hidden below, caught abruptly, and he stumbled. He looked down, and in the next moment, he snatched that hand way up, revealing his prize. He had a turkey, but he was not the only claimant. Amahl was attached to the bottom of the turkey, hooked in with claws and teeth, so firmly seizing it that he was lifted clear off the ground.
I nearly fell out of the chair laughing. Work was forgotten, of course, in favor of this unexpected comedy unfolding right in front of me. The hunter shook the turkey fiercely and yelled something; I saw his mouth move, but at my distance and through the window, I couldn’t hear the words. Amahl hung on tightly. This was his bird, the biggest he’d ever pounced upon, and he had no intention of relinquishing it.
The hunter used his gun at that point, not to shoot but as a stick, swinging at the cat and finally knocking him loose. Amahl fell to the ground and sprang back up, recapturing his prize. The hunter shook and knocked him loose again, then lifted the turkey at full arm’s length over his head, high as he could. Amahl continued jumping for it, popping up out of the grass regularly as if on a feline trampoline.
The hunter broke into a jog, and the remainder of his crossing of that field had none of the pride and masculine dignity of the initial victory parade. All the way, Amahl kept trying for the turkey. Even after they crossed out of sight, I kept laughing, and it was several minutes before I was able to return to work.
Cats: God’s quintessential hunters, contrary to the opinions of some men.
