Carleton

Five years ago at about this time of year, I was a good girl.  

The day was warm and sunny; I had the morning off of work. Tiny green leaves shone bright on the shrubs, and the first dandelion of the season poked up through the grass. Setting aside my list of housework, I chose to get outside and walk through the river flats in our valley. 

My kids, driving to school, dropped me off at a spot several miles west of our house. I would stroll home from there. 

My walk took me down hills, through grasses, across our muddy little river on pedestrian bridges. The valley is a flood zone, particularly in the spring, so although there are a few homes on the flats, it is mostly wild with well kept picnic areas in spots. Robins called brightly to one another, and on a telephone pole a woodpecker tapped noisily. The familiar landscape was fresh with spring. 

My feet turned onto the Maryland Trail, a wooded peninsula with a well-stocked bird feeder. Unexpectedly, strolling through the tall grasses in kingly dignity, a fine Maine Coon cat came towards me. As he looked into my face and walked confidently my direction, I recognized him. He was Carleton, a beloved puss belonging to dear friends whose home sat not far from the valley’s edge. Though out of his neighbourhood, Carleton had a reputation for far-ranging prowls, so I was surprised but not worried. We were good friends, Carleton and I, having had many a cuddle, so of course I approached him to give him a pet. But as he turned his dear feline face up at me, I was shocked. One of his lovely eyes was completely shut up from an injury. 

In my head I tried to create a story that made sense. Our friends were, I knew, actually away from town for a few days. Had Carleton been out on his own, been injured, and was now hiding among the woods?

Carleton needed to be taken safely home where he could be cared for. So even though it led me in the opposite direction from my place, I lifted up the cat and retraced my steps. I carried him over the bridge, then turned onto a narrow trail through a field. Carleton purred loudly, drooling, rubbing his face against my chin. But after a while he began to shift uncomfortably and turn away, as cats do when they’ve had enough of people. I held him firmly and continued the long walk, along a dusty path which led steeply upward. As I struggled to keep my footing on the hill, a growl started in Carleton’s throat. I became stern, explaining there was no more time for lolling in the grass since we must get him home. To help him relax, I sang him a little song. 

When I staggered to the top of the hill and onto the street just around the corner from his house, Carleton started getting really anxious. I reflected to myself that cats recognize their own territory, and he clearly wasn’t prepared to relinquish his plans for hiding out in the valley. But how, when we had come so far, could I let this injured cat loose just yards from his house?! How could I tell my friends that I had walked ten minutes clutching their beloved, injured pet, only to let him escape at their doorstep? 

Suddenly Carleton hissed. He scrabbled furiously to get away, pushing off my chest for leverage. Reflexively grabbing, I was left holding onto his back legs as the rest of him curled upside down into a scratchy danger zone. This was serious. 

Tightening my left fist around his back feet, I pinned Carleton to the street with my knee. Ears pinned back, yowling, he turned on me and bit my right hand, but I managed to grab him by the scruff of his neck. Hands full of angry cat, I lurched to my feet, walked resolutely the remaining few yards up to his gate – and stood stumped. 

How would I open the latched gate to the yard while holding this desperate, spitting feline? Once past the gate, how would I find the hidden house key to get us inside to safety? 

And that’s when I glimpsed beyond the gate, looking up at me from inside the yard, Carleton the cat.  

Carleton the cat?!

I turned, astonished, to look into the furious face of the huge cat held stretched between my bleeding hands. “You’re not Carleton! You’re NOT Carleton!” I exclaimed aloud, unbelieving, and tossed the unrepentant cat to the ground so he could streak away. The real Carleton gazed up at me adoringly from his two good eyes, quite whole and happy. 

Open mouthed with shock, I let myself into the house. I rummaged around, hoping to find a bandage for my bleeding thumb, then settled for a few tissues. With an uncomfortable scratch along my calf, tissues wrapped around my thumb, I began the long walk home.  

How do these things happen? I’d been a good girl going (as one should) for a sunny springtime walk, doing a good girl thing by returning my friend’s injured cat. So much for my perfect morning. I would have laughed more if it weren’t for the puncture wounds on my thumb and a throbbing leg.  

As for the Carleton lookalike, he apparently lived with his owner in one of the valley’s few homes; the eye injury was an old one.