The Bobbseys

by Mewsette

Sometimes it happens and nobody knows why. My grandmama, Patches, was a shorthaired calico, but she gave birth to four very longhaired kittens. One of them was my papa, who was named Misty until he turned out to be a boy. Eventually he became Papa-san Sacha ben Patches. He grew up a perfect gentleman, tall with long creamy fur, a brown mask and legs, and blue eyes. How, I don't know. I got my coloring and green eyes from my grandmama, and my long fur and long legs from my papa. But Papa wandered, and he disappeared shortly before I was born, breaking my furmama's heart. My mama was a half-sister of my grandmama. That happens in cat families. Another was named Junie Moon until he turned out to be a boy, too, and was renamed Rocky when he went to live with other humans in our family. Uncle Rocky slept in a flower pot when he was a baby, and licked cold bacon grease out of skillets when he was grown. He was black and white, very big and brave, my mama always said, but he went to the Bridge when I was quite young. My mama was named BamBam, a boy-type name. Guess why. Some humans aren't very good at figuring things out. But hers wasn't changed; they said it suited her. That's a whole 'nother story. Then there were Flossie and Freddie, my grandmama's other two. Flossie was nearly all white with a little gold color, a real "blonde" cat. Freddie was all orangy-red with practically no tabby stripes. They went to live with a family down the mountain. This was a different mountain from the one I lived on much later; it was the wild, remote one my mama grew up on, before she and my papa were moved to Texas, where they had me. So what I know about Aunt Flossie and Uncle Freddie, I know from stories my mama told me. The Bobbseys, they were called. In those days, in that wild place, cats didn't get the good care most of us get now. Flossie was a beautiful cat, but she was kind of whiney and crabby. I guess if I got a potato salad sandwich for dinner, like she did, I'd be crabby too. Freddie was big and hearty, and friendly with everyone. He was the better hunter of the two, and generous in sharing with Flossie, which is probably how she kept her health. But Freddie was a wanderer, too. He journeyed back up the mountain alone when he was grown, to visit his mama, my grandmama, but she had been killed in a trap in the woods during the winter. My papa was not too happy to see Freddie again, because he was courting my mama by then. One warm day in June, when the green paths in the woods were dappled with sunshine and the wild strawberries sparkled in its light, there was Uncle Freddie napping in the blossoms and berries when my human mom went out to pick some. Of course she knew him instantly, and took him home to dinner. My mama was pleased, too. Let's see, I think she was sort of Freddie's aunt. It's hard to figure out, so I try to remember things she explained to me. She saw that my papa wasn't as pleased to see him, so after dinner she and Freddie went out to visit with Buster at the burnpile. Buster was the huge golden Brahma rooster, who was sort of a pet and got along very well with cats. That way, you see, they had a chaperone, while they caught each other up on family news and my papa watched from the top of a stone porch pillar. Papa was deaf in one ear from having a worm get in his head when he was a baby, but he couldn't hear them from there, anyway. He just sat tall and straight and kept his blue eyes on them every minute. So Mama learned that Flossie was quite the pampered housecat by then, if you can call getting potato salad to eat being pampered. Freddie said she was always underfoot, so they called her Underfoot Flossie at home. He loved her, though; and he hadn't meant to stay away from her too long. It had taken him several days to make his way up that wild mountain, and there were many dangers on it. He told Mama about a pack of wild dogs roaming the woods, and the copperhead snake he'd seen. Mama was no stranger to snakes, either, and had a few tales of her own. As the evening wore on, Buster went to roost and my mama turned toward the house. She knew she was supposed to go in by then. That's when they all saw the mangy grey wild wolfdog charge out of the woods, from where he'd had his eye on Buster. Buster barely got his hefty body into the persimmon tree branches in time to miss the jaws of the wolfdog, and then the dog turned toward the cats. Big, bony and threatening, he stood between them and any handy trees; they would have to run for the house. My mama was young, thin and fast, and as she streaked for the porch, my papa jumped down to run toward her, howling at the top of his lungs. Mama went diving through the hole in the screen door that they used for their ins and outs, but Freddie wasn't as fast. The wolfdog was very close behind him. And my papa, seeing Mama was safe, went to help Freddie. When my human mom got to the door, she saw the two brothers, Sacha and Freddie, puffed up to look even bigger than they were, hissing and spitting something awful at that wild dog. And the dog stopped in his tracks, growling low and preparing to lunge. Well, my mom was good with a shotgun in those days, and it was kept on a rack right by the door. There was some shooting and yelling, and the whole thing was over. Papa and Freddie composed themselves and went inside. The next day she must have made a phone call, because Freddie's human went up on horseback to take him home. My mama watched them ride away admiringly. He was the only cat she ever saw ride a horse. Even my papa was impressed, and meowed a polite goodbye. Freddie certainly had tales to tell Flossie when he got home. The wild dogs did get Buster that summer, my mama said. He was buried near the pond where he'd always stopped when he followed them about the place. I wish I had known all of them. Freddie didn't live to get old, but Flossie did. The females of my cat dynasty always outlive the males by generations, as I've outlived my brothers by over double. Sometimes it happens, and nobody knows why.