Recently, on Facebook, someone posted a short video of their father’s barn cat twining itself around his legs in a show of affection. The writer expressed amazement that a barn cat would behave in this fashion, amply demonstrating that a) this person knows next to nothing about barns and b) this person equally knows next to nothing about barn cats.
I was raised on an “Old McDonald” type farm in the 1950’s and 60’s. We had hogs, chickens, beef cattle, sheep, and milk cows. Whenever a farm had milk cows, there would be plenty of cats because they knew they could get a free meal twice a day.
Barn cats are a particular group all on their very own. There are cats who begin as barn cats and then move inside to become house cats, which is fine. Personally, I am an animal lover and as a child, I regularly smuggled kittens into my bed. But there are some cats that are pure barn cats, creatures that enjoy affection and being fed but for whom hunting and prowling are necessary for their well-being. These cats need to walk on the wild side to be happy.
The most outstanding of our barn cats was a calico named Mrs. Oliver, after Mrs. Oliver Nelson, the lady from whom we had gotten her as a kitten. Mrs. Oliver was a phenomenal huntress who thought nothing of attacking large rats. Mrs. Oliver had a wonderful disposition, as did many of her children, and we thoroughly enjoyed playing with them and petting them. We fed our cats table scraps and milk straight from the cow.
Once we sold most of our milk cows, we retained Elsie and Whiteface, milking them in a small byre that had an opening in the ceiling leading to the hayloft. When we finished milking a cow, we would always tip the bucket, pouring some milk into a pan sitting by for that purpose. Although the cats might sleep outside in the summer, in the wintertime, you could find them curled up in a bunch close to the opening to the haymow to catch the warm air coming from the cows. Cats have an incredible ability to find the most comfortable spot in which to sleep.
I have written about it somewhere else, but Elsie was the cow that didn’t panic when an orange tomcat attached himself to her left hind leg in an effort to get milk earlier than scheduled. I was milking Elsie by hand at the time, and Elsie looked at me as if to say, “Get that thing off me, why don’t you?” I obliged and the orange tomcat went sailing across the stall.
I loved all the kitties deeply, and I was heart-broken when my parents broke the news of Mrs. Oliver’s death while I was in college. It seemed Mrs. Oliver was up in our corncrib and brought down a rat nearly as big as she was. The rat died; however, Mrs. Oliver also died in the process, demonstrating the fierce spirit of a true barn cat.
The milk cows are gone, and so are the barn cats. But I am certain that wherever there are dairy cows, the cats are still keeping watch over the farm. I firmly believe that God will redeem the creation and that we will see our beloved animals in heaven. And I look forward to that day when I hear a plaintive “Meow!” and Mrs. Oliver comes racing to me and I catch her up in my arms
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