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| "The Witches' Cove," Follower of Jan Mandijn |
This week's Link Dump is hosted by yet another of our Cats From the Past!
Meet Rudolpho. That's what I called him, at least. He was a feral for, I believe, his entire life. He had no "real" name, no home, no anything. Years ago, we were putting food in our back yard for a couple of strays that came by regularly, and one day, Rudolpho came by as well. Being a sensible guy who knew not to let a reliable source of meals go to waste, he became a frequent visitor. He loved snuggling into the catnip I grow in the yard.
Rudolpho was the most "feral" feral I've ever met. In all the years I knew him, I couldn't get within a couple of feet from him. And traps? Forget about it. He was truly his own man. He always made me think of Kipling’s line: “I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.”
He was quite a cat. A handsome Siamese, with the most brilliant blue eyes. Those eyes shone with a remarkable--I won't call it human, because that would be a disservice to him--let's say, uncanny intelligence. I always sensed that he understood everything. I strongly believe that he wasn't scared of humans as much as he simply didn't want anything to do with their world.
Rudolpho was an incredible survivor. I must have seen him around the neighborhood for at least twenty years--and he was a full-grown cat when I first made his acquaintance. He knew how to take care of himself. As far as I know, he never got into fights--when threatened with trouble or challenged by other cats, he simply ran. Or flew. I'll never forget the morning when, walking a block or two from my house, I saw Rudolpho staring at another cat who was approaching him in a menacing manner. Rudolpho's reaction was to--I swear--levitate straight upwards. One second, he was on the ground, the next, he was sitting on someone's roof. I think that other cat was as startled as I was.
Rudolpho wasn't always a daily visitor. He had places to go, things to do. Sometimes, I wouldn't see him for days, or even weeks, and I'd wonder if the stalwart fellow had finally met his end. But, eventually, there he'd be in the backyard, waiting for a meal.
The years went by, and, eventually, Rudolpho visibly aged. He lost weight, began walking in a stiff, arthritic manner, and his beautiful eyes became sunken. Still, valiant as ever, he'd make his steady rounds, living his life. Then one evening when he came by for dinner, he seemed different to me. He suddenly looked worn out. I just had the feeling he didn't have long. I brought him a plate of tuna--his favorite--and I stood a respectful distance away as he gobbled it down. After he ate, I told him that we loved him, and just wished we could have given him a real home. He stared at me while I was talking, and I swear he knew exactly what I was saying. Then, he left.
Early the next morning, as I was out on my daily run, I came across his body a short distance from my house. He was lying peacefully on his side in the middle of the sidewalk. He was uninjured, so it seemed clear that he hadn't run into a car or some predator. After he left my yard, he started to resume his rounds, but...his wanderings just came to their inevitable end. It was as if he had decided, "I don't want to do this any longer. It's time to go."
It always pained me that someone with Rudolpho's looks, calm, gentle personality, and intelligence was fated to remain feral. He would have made somebody a wonderful companion. But his was a very long life and, I think, not an unhappy one. I thought of him as a dear friend, and in his own strange way, I think he saw me as a friend, as well.
Yes, we're still trying to figure out what the hell happened at Tunguska.
What the hell exploded over Brazil?
What the hell happened to Gerry Irwin?
William Faulkner goes Hollywood.
The birth of the trampoline.
The birth of penicillin.
More medieval she-wolves.
More on the life of General James Wolfe.
Why the Soviet census of 1937 didn't turn out too well.
Some nifty new photos from Mars.
If you live in North Dakota and have old human remains around the house, (and who doesn't?) you just might have clues to a 100-year-old murder mystery.
Vintage Ads With Unexpected Napoleons. (That will only make sense if you're unfortunate enough to follow me on Twitter.)
Shorter version: Montague Summers was weird.
Artistic snobs.
Care to visit the Stairs of Death?
So, what was our planet like 1.5 billion years ago? Quite possibly, very, very wet.
The museum that's said to boast the book-tossing ghost of Agatha Christie.
Channel Islands imprisonment during WWII.
That time "Aida" was performed under the Great Pyramid.
One of my favorite urban legends: Jackie Gleason, Richard Nixon, and the alien corpses.
A well-traveled message in a bottle. A number of years ago, I was on a boat headed for Catalina Island. On a whim, I wrote a note, put it in a bottle, and chucked it over the side. Never got a reply. The way things go with me, it was probably swallowed by a shark.
George Orwell's enigmatic first wife.
How contemporary newspapers covered five famous unsolved murders.
A love story from 1950s New York.
Historical playbills, and other theatrical links.
When mourning becomes an entertaining hobby.
In praise of dogs.
A Norman castle turned hotel.
Napoleon and the Demon Man.
The 1980s soap opera fad.
A typhus quarantine in 1892.
The bad luck of Captain Kidd.
An abused indentured servant turns to murder.
The first Englishman to be sent to the gallows by women.
An archaeological mystery.
The life of General James Wolfe.
The notorious "man they couldn't hang."
A famed "ghost ship."
Benjamin Walker's strange castle.
The chicken coop murders.
Consuelo Vanderbilt's miserable marriage.
Alice Shaw, whistling prima donna.
The murderous Dr. Snook.
Murder in Lancashire.
The "leap year privilege."
The doctor who was at every key battle of the Civil War.
The "cholera ship."
The desk clerk who was the first man to reach the North Pole.
A leap-year tragedy.
That's all for this week! Tune in on Monday, when we'll look at the disappearance of a Kansas woman. In the meantime, here's Hank.
Every feral cat should be remembered as Rudolpho is. They aren’t but they should be. I am glad that he had as long a life as he did and, hopefully, a contented one. If he always looked good (except toward the end) and was never injured, he probably lived his lengthy life in decent health, helped by the fact that he could always depend on an enjoyable meal from kind people when he needed one. It’s pleasant, in a melancholy way, to read that he had a favourite last meal and that he died without violence and, in all likelihood, without pain or discomfort. That is not always a favour granted to feral cats, or to any animal. Godspeed, Rudolph, and God bless you for watching out for him.
ReplyDeleteJames Wolfe was one of the British Army's most brilliant generals and, in a way, a founder of Canada as it became. A fascinating man.
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