Dear readers; As I am traveling I've decided to republish a column I wrote some years ago about our family cat's adventure on the Isle of Skye, in Scotland, where my mother and her husband, David, lived for five years, until 1981. This, and many other adventures, may be found in my book, The View From Sunnybank, sold at Horizon Books in Traverse City.
Animals are incredibly resilient. I saw a cat the other day, walking quietly on a leash with her owner, not seeming to mind the snowy scene. This pussy, rescued from a cruel situation, was mending in a loving home. Her sleek marmalade coat reminded me of Jinji-cat, who lived the first 5 years of her long life on the Isle of Skye, in a snug country cottage with my mother and her beloved husband, David.
Jinji, a spayed, attractive tortoiseshell kitty, was friendly, but independent, preferring to live outside most of the time. As David puts it,
“I always gave her the choice; before I locked up for the night I’d hold the door open. If she wanted out, she went; if not, she’d spend the night in her bed in the kitchen.”
She loved to wind around their legs, answering their questions with meows. Jinji would often bring them gifts, like horrified, wriggling rabbits or dead mice, and occasionally even birds, which she’d deposit at their feet, looking pleased with herself.
One Sunday morning, though, when Jinji was about three, David got a terrible shock. When he opened the door to let her in for breakfast and a fireside snooze, he found her sitting quietly on the stoop, looking up at him. She held out her front leg, like an offering, too exhausted to meow. Clamped firmly to her small paw, which seemed to be nearly severed, was a huge steel trap, complete with heavy chain; the whole thing weighed about four pounds. It must have been unthinkably painful to stagger over miles of wild terrain to her home, dragging the chain.
My mother held her while David gently pried the hideous jaws open. Jinji, her eyes closed, allowed this. In a remarkable demonstration of her trust in them, she briefly purred.
David comments:
“We drove her to into the little village of Portree and woke the vet, who carefully examined her, but could do nothing. The skin was broken; her paw was crushed. His advice? Trust to nature. We took her home and put her to bed, where she fell deeply asleep for two days. On the third day she weakly asked to go outside, where she somehow managed to scrape a hole and do her business, cover it, then hobble back to bed. For weeks, except for brief, painful visits to the garden, she would sleep, eat a bit, and lap milk. During this time I wrote a letter to the local newspaper offering to return the trap to its owner, firmly attached to a certain part of his anatomy. No one claimed it; the police took it away.”
“Although illegal, some crofters would fix these traps to fence post tops to catch the hated “hoodies”—hooded crows which prey on new-born lambs.”
“As the weeks went by Jinji tentatively put her leg to the ground; after about four months, she could walk on it. After five months she could extend and retract her claws. She began spending more time outside; with her claws ready for action, we felt she was as good as new.”
Eventually, in 1981, she, and they, moved to the west of England, to our present country home, Bryn Garth Cottage.
There, for the next fourteen years, unaffected by her terrible ordeal, Jinji thrived, along with the family dog, Kate (who has her own amazing story). Finally, at age nineteen, she died in David’s arms.He puts it best: “Her life was idyllic; she was cared for, but never pampered, and given perfect freedom to be a cat.”
Lucky Jinji.