Wild Ginger: A Cat to Remember

The other day a stray cat appeared in our yard, the first I’ve seen in twenty years. A beautiful white kitty, she (I always assume cats are girls) sat on the grass, looking almost regal. After reporting her to several local animal sites, I tried to approach her with a plate of deli turkey. To my frustration, she bolted into the woods behind our house. Watching that kitty made me think of another stray cat we once adopted named Ginger.

One day, in the backyard of our former house, about thirty years ago, a young, thin brown tabby showed up. After several days of watching her hanging out forlornly, my husband Randy and I began feeding her. We wondered if she’d been born feral, although she seemed approachable, but still skittish. Something about her broke our hearts. After a week, she finally let me touch her, but she was covered in ticks, which I had removed at the vet. We named her Ginger after her cinnamon coloring.

Weeks passed and eventually I let Ginger inside. But from a life spent outside, I sensed she felt uncomfortable in this strange, indoor world. Our cat Floyd wasn’t keen on her presence nor was our Chihuahua, Ren. Ginger mostly sat atop our sofa, almost as if hoping no one would notice her. She could blend in and finally be part of a family.

Everything was fine, except for one big problem.

Ginger loved to hunt. Almost daily, she’d bring small, dead animals and their various body parts to our back porch. She probably thought she was gifting us for being generous.

One time to my horror, I found my inquisitive toddler, Patrick, about to pick up a mangled dead mouse from under a porch chair. Nearby lay a deceased chipmunk. Another time Ginger tried to carry an injured baby bunny into our kitchen.

I couldn’t handle all this carnage and tragedy. To my sadness, Ginger had to go.

Being young and healthy, I didn’t want to bring her to the vet to be put down. I also didn’t want to donate her to the Humane Society where she’d end up in a cage and probably be put down anyway. I wanted to do this kindly.

The only thing I could think of was this huge farm about twenty minutes away in a rural part of Newtown, Connecticut. Thankfully, Ginger had survival skills, since she was a stray before meeting us.

While my mom watched Patrick, I put Ginger in a carrier and took her to the farm. It was a beautiful, warm fall day. At least she’d have time to acclimate before winter, I figured. Parked on the side of the road, I gazed at the huge red barn in the distance. Fields of grass and crops grew as far as I could see.

Ginger looked at me with wide eyes from inside her carrier, as if asking what was happening. I got out and brought her to the edge of the farm property. The air smelled like hay with a touch of livestock and manure.

“Good luck,” I whispered as I opened the door to her crate. Ginger took a few tentative sniffs and darted off, disappearing into the tall grass. I sent a little prayer after her.

Thirty years later, when I saw that little white cat in our yard, I thought of Ginger and wondered what happened to her. I saw how luck plays such a big role in our lives, with animals and humans. Our parents, where we’re born, who raises us, the ups and downs of fate are all a test of fortune, good and bad.

I looked at that place in the woods where the little white cat had fled. Like I had with Ginger so long ago, I sent a prayer.

 

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