Fun fact: Some cats don’t recognize certain animals as food because they haven’t been taught to eat them. They just like to play with their prey because it moves.
“Mom, there’s a black cat on the front porch,” my kids said when they came in from school one afternoon. “I know. He was sitting there when I went out to get the mail,” I said. “He started purring and rubbing against my legs.”
“We need to feed him, Mom,” my daughter said.
“I already did.”
She frowned. “Did you have any cat food?”
“No, but I had some meatballs left from last night’s dinner,” I said. “He sure liked them.”
“You fed him meatballs?” my daughter said, and at the same moment, my son said, “We should name him Meatball!”
“Guys, let’s not get too attached to this cat,” I cautioned. “He just appeared on the porch this morning, and he may be gone tomorrow. We don’t know if he’s a stray or if he already has a home. So let’s not get attached to him.”
But they didn’t listen. My kids spent hours on the porch that evening playing with their new pet. They came in and asked me for old towels and a cardboard box so they could build him a bed.
I was worried that they’d be heartbroken when the cat was gone in the morning, but Meatball was waiting on the porch, ready to rub his head on whoever would stand still long enough to allow it. That morning, the kids nearly missed the bus because they were so busy playing with the cat.
And when twelve-year-old Julia got off the school bus that afternoon, she couldn’t wait to tell me what her friend had said about Meatball’s name. “I told Chloe that we named the cat Meatball because that was the first thing we fed him, and she said, ‘Well, it’s a good thing your mom didn’t do that with you.’ When I asked why, she said, ‘Think about it, Jules. What was the first thing your mom fed you?’ ” Julia laughed and said, “Oh my goodness, Mom, my name would be Breast Milk!”
I shook my head and laughed. Silly girls.
The days went on, and Meatball stayed. And despite my warnings to the kids not to get attached, I found myself falling in love with this stray cat.
We invited Meatball into the house, but he was only content to stay inside for short periods of time. When he wanted out, he’d sit by the front door and meow until someone opened the door for him.
One day, I went to the door to see if Meatball was ready to come back inside when I saw him darting through our yard, zigzagging back and forth.
“What is Meatball doing?” one of the kids asked. “He looks like he’s chasing something.”
“He probably found a mouse,” I said. But when I went outside, I discovered that it wasn’t a mouse he was chasing, but a chipmunk.
I was concerned that Meatball would kill the chipmunk, so I attempted to chase it into the woods behind our house where I doubted Meatball would follow. But the more I chased the chipmunk, the more Meatball chased me. The three of us darted around the yard until I was sure my children were cracking up if they were watching from the window.
I ran out of energy before Meatball did, and he eventually caught the chipmunk. He smacked his paw on the chipmunk’s back, and the animal flipped over onto its back. It squealed and I cringed, waiting for the cat to eat it. Instead, Meatball licked it once and then lifted his paw, setting it free. The chipmunk jumped up, and the chase began all over again.
He caught the chipmunk for a second time, and the same thing happened. Meatball wasn’t hunting the chipmunk. They were playing. And it was hilarious to witness.
A few days later, I saw Meatball zigzagging through the yard again. I called for my children to come and watch. “He’s playing with that chipmunk again,” I called.
We all went out into the yard and watched their game. The kids and I were laughing and chasing them until, quite abruptly, the game stopped.
The chipmunk had run toward our wall of landscaping bricks and squeezed into a hole between the bricks. And Meatball had followed.
The chipmunk fit into the hole; Meatball did not.
By the time I caught up to them, Meatball had wedged his head into the hole. “His head is stuck,” my kids reported.
I tugged on his body and realized that he was indeed stuck. I could hear the chipmunk squealing from inside the hole, and Meatball howling and squirming in response.
“Quick, guys, help me pull down these bricks,” I said. “We can make the hole bigger and free Meatball.”
We pulled down several of the landscaping bricks until Meatball wriggled free. He had a few scratches on his head and face. I tried to grab him to clean his wounds, but at that same moment, the chipmunk popped out of the hole and ran away. Meatball darted after him, and their game began again.
Meatball and the neighborhood chipmunks have formed an unlikely friendship. He allows them to eat out of his food dish, and I’ve even caught glimpses of them snuggling on our front porch.
My children have even named Meatball’s chipmunk friends. They call them Cat Food, since that’s the first thing we fed them.
~Diane Stark
