The Adventurers of Ragpuff: Episode 5 - Winter Means a Warm House

Ragpuff has come to another crossroad in his quest for his first home. The place he had loved from the beginning of time, with the funny talking woman and the man who didn't say much, his safe chair, behind his safe window, in his safe house. A house that has blended into memory with his kit-napping and abandonment, the round man and his shack besides the gravel pit, the days and nights spent in travel, and now the warm invitation of home and heart from the tall, thin man with the loose skin. When the snowflakes began to fall, it was time for some serious thinking.

Winter Means a Warm House

At first, I had not planned to stay but a few days, at most, to fatten up for the next leg of my long trek to find my first home. If those wonderful smells streaming out into the twilight had not been so enticing, I would have been, at this moment, on my way still. I did not think that I minded the cold, I was getting used to it, hanging out at night in the upper branches of a string of cotton wood trees that lined a little brook. It was the perfect arrangement, food and shelter in one easy place. My fur was thickening, my pads becoming hardened and furrier. From the tops of the leafless trees, I could see my next day's journey clear.

I had eaten two meals with this wonderful-hearted old man; slept on his bed, surrounded by the softness of a pillow of my own. I had thought about staying, perhaps, until the door opened and I went outside to do my business. At that very moment, at the edge of the manicured lawn and the stubble of straw that surrounded the old house, I had decided that I would go on my way. He was nice, comfortable to be with, and he seemed genuine of heart and spirit. Let me just say, I would have left it all behind, right then and there, if the snowflakes had not begun to fall.

The man's shadow silhouetted behind the glass window, peeking through the curtains, perhaps wondering, hoping, if I would stay with him—at least for a season, was more than I could bear. The snow was coming. Yet even though this would be the first snow every in my life to experience, I was deeply compelled to abandon my journey for a time, and stay. With the idea in my head that at any moment, if I chose to leave again, snow or no snow, I would. It was my choice to make. Like the round man, whom I hated to leave, the thin man touched my heart and senses, as well.

So, that's what I did. After having attended to my bodily needs, I snorted at the snowflake that landed square on my nose, shook my fur violently, then trotted back to the door. It opened immediately.

The only requirement requested of me, a price to pay, I guess, for giving up the wild path in life, was a bath. Through gentle coaxing and throaty sounds, I succumbed to the warm bath waters. Hey, I'm a tough fella. I'm nearly a year old, and I agree, there was no amount of tongue washing that I could do to take away the grime of rock dust, the burs, the fleas, and those nasty little ticks I sometimes picked at. Must have had gotten them from the tall grasses in the fields around my last, temporary home.

I'll admit, I was hesitant at first, when he surrounded me with a towel, when I heard the water running in the kitchen sink, when I smelled the perfumed soap sitting on the counter, when my four paws touched the warm water, giving me a sensation of flight. But as the old man sang, I held still, in the water I sat, up to my belly, not an inch more. He seemed thoughtful like that.

He sang to me as he poured the warm water over my back with a small pot. With that wonderful smell of soap that I had first mentioned, he began to lather my harsh dry fur and skin.

You know? Water, when it's nice and warm, sweet smelling as this was, is not all that bad for a cat. The streams where I wandered each day were cold, swift running, and the rocks beneath, slippery with moss. I had the misfortune of falling in one of those cold streams once and it was such a shock that I plainly made up my mind, right there and then that I would never go into the water again. No matter what!

As the man sang to me, his sweet, rustic words tickled my ears. The only part of me that hadn't been lathered and rinsed; lathered and rinsed until he pulled the plug and the water melted away, along with my dirt and grime, and a few pest that had hitched a ride. His sink would soon have hairball to cough up.

The songs continued, sweet and soft, as he squeezed frail hands gentle against my body, squishing out all the water he could, before wrapping me in a large, warm as warm could be, towel. Wrapped snuggly against his chest he sang as we moved into the living room to his chair in front of the fire. The warm glow lured me to sleep on the man's lap while he spent the better part of that morning brushing me, combing out the mats, the dead skin, the burs and sticks, the dead pest. In front of the fire, my fur dried quickly. When he had finished grooming me, I felt a surge of energy race through my body and into my limbs. I never felt this recharged in my whole life, so far. He must have sensed the need for me to run around the house and show off. He gently placed my four paws on a plush carpet, where I immediately took over the reorganizing of my furs and whiskers by rubbing, scooting, and rolling, over and over; primping and rolling, then running again.

This time the old man sang a new song. A livelier tune. His heart was gay. He sat in his chair and admired the work he'd done. Admired my long, silky, orange and white fur. I admired my soft, sweet smelling self and even noticed that for the first time since I remember leaving my first home, my white paws were as white as the large snowflakes piling up on the windowsills. Clean! Oh, how good that felt. No itching, no grime and gunk on my tongue. Just wonderfully, gloriously, clean.

I don't remember much about my kitten days, my life with the funny talking woman and the man who didn't say much, but I don't think I had ever felt so clean as I was at this moment. I could get used to such pampering.

The tune the man sang soon changed to a soft whistle. Once he had cleared away the washing things, removed the largest hairball I'd ever seen, from the bowels of the sink, one I hoped I would never, ever, have to cough up, he fed us lunch. While he wrapped his tuna between two slices of bread, I got a whole can, juice and all, just for myself. On the table I sat, with my own place, bowl of tuna, and bowl of water. For an extra treat after we'd eaten, he poured some of his delicious, creamy coffee into my saucer and we sat in silence together, lapping it up; he sipped, I lapped, while the snowflakes fell outside the windows, larger and denser. Then the thought occurred to me that I would soon have to go out in that stuff for a quick squirt.

I dreaded the door to open. I stood silently beside it expecting to be chilled to the core the moment I set a clean, white paw onto the icy doorstep. The snow had covered all remaining signs of grass and dirt that a cat needs a few times a day.

The man sang happily, as he left the room, left me standing beside a closed door. It was urgent that I went out. Didn't he know that? No sooner than he left did he return with a large bag of sand, an empty, metal washtub, and some of his previously read newspapers.

Cooing gently again, in a small space at the back of the kitchen, near where his hat and coat hung on a peg on the wall above where his boots lay lined up on a small rug by the water heater, he spread a layer of newspaper, then sat the tub on them. That familiar coo, the only one I understand, "Here, kitty, kitty," beckoned me to investigate. The urge to relive myself was ever stronger as I sniffed the contents of the tub—the sand. Before I realized it, I was squatting happily, smack dab in the middle, singing my own tune.

After burying my remains, the man and I returned to the chair by the fire. Still clean, still warm, I curled up on his lap, then closing our eyes, we rocked back and for, to and fro, until the shadows of twilight filled the room.

This man would be hard to leave, come spring.