I guess if you really think about it, we have Amy to blame for the strange event which took place in the summer of 1984. (I'm pretty sure it was actually my fault, but blaming Amy is just easier :) )
It wasn't uncommon during our childhood in North Ogden to have different animals make their way into our neighborhood. We lived directly below an open canal, and wildlife was always abundant.Animals and birds alike were seen in the early hours of the morning and again in the fading hours of each evening. . When two feral cats began visiting regularly, we took note.
There were always cats around, but these seemed a little different, and immediately Amy set out to save them. She religiously placed water and food out for them and tried to gain their trust. While I think they appreciated the food and water, they never warmed up to us really. They were truly wild and wanted nothing to do with being petted or held..... which was fine with me. We called them Tarzan and Jane, and while we got used to seeing them, they never became what we'd consider family pets.We had just enjoyed a neighborhood party one summer evening when we returned home to find Tarzan, the LESS friendly and definitely meaner of the two, running around inside our house. Ummmm, running around INSIDE our house.
One would think there would be a simple remedy for this, but Tarzan was no simple cat. He hated and feared us (and reflecting back now, deservedly so). I think Jane had been distracted with food a couple times when a hand had been able to reach out and touch and pet her. But Tarzan never gave in. He was diligent in his hatred of us. So to find him darting crazily through our home struck terror in our hearts. A plan of action was soon made. Tarzan had positioned himself in my brother's room and my dad decided to create a human pathway. We, the humans, were placed in a line which led out the back door. The idea was that my dad would go in and flush Tarzan out. The cat, in turn, would run down the hallway, through the tunnel of human beings and out the back door. And it worked perfectly....... UNTIL someone forgot to open the screen. Once Tarzan bounced off the screen, all composure was lost within the humans and it was a true "fend for yourself" moment. Both people and feline screamed, panicked and ran, and before we knew it, Tarzan was back in the relative safety of Aaron's room.
Not to be easily defeated, my dad resorted to Plan B. With a shovel and sleeping bag in tow, he bravely stalked past us, walked down the hall like a soldier in battle, paused for a moment with his hand on the door, and then entered Aaron's room. We huddled in the living room and listened as the battle raged from within Aaron's room. The sounds from inside, *bump*, *crash*, *swear word*, *whack*, *howl*, *crash*, *thump*, seemed to last forever. I don't know that my heart has ever pounded so loudly in my ears. The bedroom door finally opened and closed and a very frustrated father came out to us. Tarzan was not going willingly.
As my dad left the room, we wondered out loud how we were going to get Tarzan out. He was mean and just plain scary. I'm sure we had some very clever plans complete with food and traps and bravery and such. But my dad's plan ended up being the one which ended this story. It involved no words, just a tired man grabbing his 22 rifle from its hiding place and returning to Aaron's room.
Before my mom could finish, "KEITH, you can't shoot the cat in the hou.....," it was done.
As my dad solemnly carried out a bag from Aaron's room, my siblings and I entered. Our eyes beheld a true war zone. Aaron's fish bowl was lying broken on the ground, its inhabitants casualties of war. Red paw prints could be traced running up the walls to the ceiling. Blankets and pillows were disheveled and things were in disarray. It had been a true battle between the two, equally terrified, parties.
This story always makes me wonder when I think about it. When it's brought up every couple years, we begin by laughing at the absurdity of it and then end up scratching our heads. How did it get to THAT point? It is not only so UNcharacteristic of my dad, but it just makes no sense. At the time, though, I'm sure it made all the sense in the world. My dad had hit Tarzan with the shovel in trying to subdue him, and I think once he injured the cat, he felt bad and decided that he needed to put him out of his misery. Since Tarzan wouldn't cooperate and would have shredded my dad to pieces, shooting him seemed logical.
End Note: Tarzan had the final say. The shot was only somewhat deadly (shooting a moving cat isn't easy). As my dad was driving to dispose of the bag, a heavy, labored breathing began from deep within the bag in the backseat. My father nearly drove off the road from sheer terror and immediately got out and threw the bag into a field. He was NOT ready for Round 2 with that cat! A couple days later, Amy and I actually saw Tarzan resting in an orchard not far from where my dad had left him. We couldn't get very close, though we tried. When he turned and saw us, he darted away. Imagine that. We took food to him a couple times, a peace offering of sorts, but I don't think he was in the mood to forgive us. We saw him only a handful of times after that before he faded out of our lives for good and we quit taking treats. I like to imagine that he caught up with a family of wild-hearted cats, much like his own, and became their leader. ... that they roamed the foothills and loved their freedom..... and lived happily ever after.
