Open Letter to a Bozo

This letter is to the Bozo who dumps off cats in my yard. Specifically to the one who dumped off the pregnant calico female with the orange tail.

I know that person doesn’t read this blog, but maybe some higher power does, will see what I say, and arrange for Bozo to get huge festering boils on his butt and face.

Shortly after I wrote about the calico kitty last month she became very skinny. As I predicted, she had kittens somewhere. A couple of weeks later, kittens were heard mewing behind the freezer box at the corn stand. By the time I found someone who could fit back into the corner (Ysidro) and someone who could speak Spanish well enough to ask him to check there, the mewing was gone. The mama had moved the babies.

So I got some kitten chow and had Margarita ask Ysidro to crawl back in the corner again and leave a bowl of food there. It’s one of the few places around here where the raccoons can’t get to it and scarf it up. I also did a thorough search of the place to see if I could see or hear anything. I couldn’t.

The plan was to keep the mother fed. When the kittens were old enough, she’d bring them to the food and then I could trap them all. I can do this, I have a foolproof trap that doesn’t hurt anything.

This afternoon I went over to the stand to see if they needed any more food. Ysidro brought half a bag out to me, along with the bowl, and said the mama cat was gone. John showed up about that time and said she’d been killed on the highway a couple of days ago.

The guys don’t like to tell me these things. First, I know they try to spare my feelings. Second, they know that everyone on the place will be dispatched to look for the kittens. I’ve already done another thorough search. They aren’t in the hay pile. They aren’t in the woodshed, or under the old house next door. I even went out in the horse pasture to check the old goat house. No kittens. I found a pair of mallards, though. They didn’t fly off, they just waddled into the weeds, which leads me to believe they have a nest there.

The “cheeseweed” (that’s what my mother called it) in the pasture is 3 feet tall. So now I not only have to worry the kittens may be somewhere out there, but there could be a duck nest as well.

So here’s to you, Bozo. Enjoy your boils. Until I find those kittens, hopefully alive enough to save, I’ll renew my wish for you every day.

Bob and Ysidro and the rest of the guys at the corn stand will be thinking of you also, as I drive them all nuts.