Garnet Hunt White
Golden Star 'purrs' an impression that he is better than other cats. He won't associate with the other felines, but affiliates with Whitey, my dog, Glenn, my husband, and me. Golden Star seems to know it is Glenn and I who do the most for him: the ones who feed him, rub him, and let him have the run of the house. We jump to his every meow.
"Golden Star acts like Camp." Glenn said. "He's a feline namedropper."
"Glenn, it's a sin comparing Golden Star to Camp." I said. "Our Star ranks higher in the sky than that man." (Camp, one of our crowd, associates only with those who can do him the most good at the time.)
Golden Star jumps upon my lap when he's in the house, regardless if I'm sewing, reading, resting or computing. If I'm in the yard and another cat comes near me, and he sees it, the tip of his tail twitches, he hisses, f-f-f-f f, and slaps at the invader.
His orange-golden hair lays slick on his back. Soft white fur frames his head. The solid white fluff reaches from his chin downward between his forelegs like a white vest
White hair grows in the shape of a 'G' on one of his yellow-orange furred hips. The other hip has a large 'S' in white body hair surrounded by his natural gold-colored coat. With these initials, he had to be named, Golden Star.
He walks in the yard with me every morning. I feed the other cats that don't have the same good privileges as he. He smells the food that I put in their pans. If the odor is right, he selects a morsel. He swats cats that come near while he's inspecting the eats.
I drive the golf cart to check the yard. Golden Star hops on the cart and sets in the seat beside me while I ride to survey the fence line. No other cat ventures near the cart while he's in it. Many times after he gets off the cart, another cat jumps on. If Golden Star sees it, he opens his mouth, shows his white fangs, snarls, and runs at it. The cat leaps from the cart after that display of anti-socialism.
Golden Star must have a plate of food in the room where I work. He loves canned salmon. Last year as I filled out my income tax, I lost one neatly typed sheet. Golden Star had pulled it from my desk to cover his salmon. That vexed me; the 1040 form had a fishy smell; I had to get a new form and re-type it.
Golden Star and Whitey, Glenn's dog, the top pet around this White House, have togetherness. These two sleep together, ride together in the golf cart, and eat together unless Whitey thinks Golden Star is getting most of his food, then I hear a bossy growl. Golden Star always associates with the leader like a "name dropping" person.
He began riding in the station wagon as a kitten. He and Whitey would race to the wagon. However, Star would get carsick if the travel became too long. Glenn and I filled the car with plenty of paper towels and wipes. After cleaning the mess, I would lay Star's body against Whitey who began licking him. The massage seemed to help the cat's sickness.
Golden Star scans the nearby meadow for prey. If he catches a rat or a mole, he brings it on the porch, lays it down outside the French Doors to show to me. ( I dispose of it.)
Golden Star didn't come for his food on August 10, 1992. Where was he? Glenn called, "Golden Star. Kitty. Kitty, Golden Star."
I called and called until I became hoarse. I made a recording with calls for "Golden Star. Kitty, kitty. Come, Golden Star." I kept the recorder turned on and put it on the porch.
Glenn, Whitey and I drove over the countryside, hunted and hunted, called and called, used the recorder, and asked neighbors if they had seen Golden Star. We couldn't find him.
"It's been six days since we've seen Golden Star," I told Glenn. "I fear that he's gone for good."
"We can't give up hope." Glenn said.
I began planning for Glenn's birthday, which was four days away.
"No!" Glenn protested. "I don't want to see anyone that day."
By his disapproval, I knew he still grieved over Golden Star. I stopped all preparations for a social get-together. I, too, didn't want to force a happy face.
Early on the morning of August 20, Glenn's birthday, we were awaken by loud pitiable, pathetic, "Me-e-o-o-ow." Glenn and I jumped out of bed and turned on the porch light. What did we see? We saw a thin malnourished, burr covered, hollow sides, greasy, grimy, gray or black or dirty colored cat.
The cat limped to the door dragging a piece of rope tired around his neck. Pleading eyes looked at us.
"Golden Star!" Glenn yelled, jerked open the door and grabbed Golden Star into his arms. "My birthday present!"
Golden Star seemed to have been tied with a rope, somewhere, by someone. We never where or by whom. He had gnawed the rope through. He headed for home dragging the rope.
Glenn and Golden Star celebrated the day together. But first, the cat ate canned salmon and lapped a saucer of milk. The brushing away the burrs, the bath, the towel drying all came later; then we saw our beautiful snow white and golden yellow cat.
I am typing this article years after Golden Star found his way back home. As I type, who sleeps curls up on my lap? Golden Star. Yes, we're still under Golden Star's paws and we love it.
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