Cats are cats… the world over! These intelligent, peace-loving, four-footed friends — who without prejudice, without hate, without greed — may someday teach us something.
~James Mackintosh Qwilleran
I’d never had a cat and never thought about having one, but how could I say “no” to the adorable child holding the box? It was a gift at the end of a wonderful school year. My eager third-graders huddled around, waiting to see if I’d accept it.
In the box were two six-week-old kittens curled up fast asleep. One was a calico and the other a gray tabby. I was assured they would grow up to be wonderful mousers. I sighed. Me and my big mouth. Just last week, I had told my third-graders about the mice in the straw bales skirting my trailer. In the box was their answer to my problem. I took the box and forced a smile. My students cheered. Soon, there were two litter boxes with two bags of litter, two water dishes, and two food dishes with two bags of kitten food adorning my desk.
Throughout the afternoon, the kittens dozed on and off. But when they were awake, they fussed and spit at each other in their box. They didn’t seem to like each other despite being littermates. They’d fight until they wore themselves out. Then they would curl up as far away from each other as they could and fall asleep. At the end of the day, I carried the box home while my students trailed behind carrying the kittens’ gear. The kittens slept soundly at opposite ends of the box. When we reached the trailer, my dog, Sasha, joined the parade. Up the steps and into the trailer we went. The children quickly dropped the kittens’ things and hurried away. I didn’t have a clue what to do next.
The calico didn’t get along with Sasha or me any better than she did with her brother. So a friend of mine adopted her. I named the friendly little guy who remained Gingham, and he was soon bedmates and best friends with Sasha. I always smile when remembering Gingham pouncing on Sasha’s tail and waiting for a ride. The two of them spent a great deal of time together, and that became their favorite game. Sasha would lie down on the tile floor, and Gingham would pounce. As soon as he was stretched out on Sasha’s tail, she would begin sweeping it back and forth. Even when Gingham was full-grown, Sasha still managed to give Gingham a ride on her tail.
Gingham, Sasha, and I shared many adventures over the years. One of the most amazing began quite innocently.
Late one night, I woke from a sound sleep and heard a light siss. I figured it was Gingham wanting out, so I told him “no” and rolled over. Sasha nudged my hand, and I reassured her with a pat on the head that all was well. I snuggled deeper beneath the covers and buried my head under a pillow. I dozed until I heard a thump. What on earth? Groggily, I uncovered my head and peered at the bedside clock. It was 2:00 a.m. Another thump. It was Gingham jumping at the bedroom door. He hated being locked out. When I didn’t want to play with him or have him bite my toes, I’d just shut the door. But he’d never knocked so loudly or continuously before. Usually, he took “no” for an answer and went to the couch.
“Okay, okay,” I muttered as I reached out and cracked the door. In he flew. “Settle down, or back out you go,” I told him.
He raced around the tiny bedroom, jumping from the bed to the dresser and back. Sasha poked her head up from her spot on the floor at the foot of the bed. She grunted and settled down. Gingham took off out of the room. I had such a headache and felt so groggy that I was about to close the door when in streaked a gray tabby fur ball.
“Gingham, knock it off.”
He raced around again, jumping on the bed and then the dresser. I groaned and put down my head. “Ow,” I complained as Gingham began biting and tugging at my feet through the covers. I kicked, wondering at his weird behavior and why Sasha wasn’t more upset. “Geez,” I yelped, feeling my hair being pulled and pulled. I bolted upright. “Stop it, that hurts!” The room spun, and I stood dizzily at the side of the bed. Something was really wrong. I held onto the bedroom doorframe, and Gingham began biting my toes. “Gingham, have you gone completely nuts?” Then I heard the siss again, only louder. I staggered down the hall to the kitchen. The siss was coming from the stove!
Gingham kept biting my toes. “Okay, okay. I get it.” I was starting to realize I might have a gas leak. I grabbed the phone and called Al, the volunteer fire chief.
He wasn’t happy to be so abruptly wakened and snarled, “What is it?” Quickly and hysterically, I told him about the siss.
“Get out now!” Al yelled, fully alert.
I headed to the back door. “Sasha,” I called when she didn’t appear. Gingham was gone, too. I staggered to the bedroom and saw Gingham biting at Sasha and pouncing on her, trying to rouse her. I grabbed Sasha and half-dragged her to the back door. Gingham kept biting her tail. With the door open, I saw Al at my propane tank turning off the outlet valve.
“Hurry!” Al shouted.
I pushed Sasha down the stairs and onto the grass. Once we were safely out, Gingham quit his frantic actions and jumped in my arms. WHOOSH! The last of the propane caught on fire as it reached the automatic pilot lights on my stove. Al rushed in with a heavy-duty extinguisher.
Beyond Al, I could see the wall behind my stove blazing. Several blasts from the extinguisher did the trick. Thank God Al had turned off the propane on his way over. More than that, I thanked God for Gingham. With the bedroom door closed, I wouldn’t have heard the gas leak. Sasha and I were so groggy from breathing in the gas that we would have been asleep when the stove blew, and the propane would have continued to feed the fire.
That little cat, an unwanted gift from my students, saved our lives. He was a true hero. The next day, he was happy with a few extra liver treats as a reward, but I would have given him the world.
~Sharon F. Norton
