Amazing Cat Tales Give Away Rights Ebook

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We heard a rustling in the woods but couldn’t see anything. My husband and I stopped to listen, wondering what it could be. Through the tangled bush, off the side of the hiking trail on our North Georgia mountain farm, we finally spotted a beautiful, brown-mottled cat munching on a bird. Feathers were dripping from her mouth and whiskers, just like the cats you see in cartoons. Then, to our surprise, we heard a kitten’s meow, and a tiny gray tabby with gold eyes came out from the underbrush. Unafraid, the kitten came right up to us, but the mother cat ran away.

I stooped to pick her up and nestled her under my chin. Her soft face rubbed against my cheek. “Isn’t she sweet?” I said. My husband agreed. I think he loves cats more than I do. “Look, hon,” I said, “she’s got six toes, like the Hemingway cats.” “They look like little mittens,” he said. “We have to keep her. Can we, please?” “Sure, but what do you think Figuero will do when we bring her home? He’s had the run of the house for years. And what about the dog, having to deal with another cat?” “Everyone will have to adjust,” I said. “She’s coming home with us. Her six toes must represent a good omen, don’t you think?”

After much deliberation, we decided to name her after the 1968 classic tune by Tommy James and the Shondells, “Mony Mony.” At home, Figuero, our super-fat, laid-back, black-and-white cat tolerated Mony’s playfulness. Our border collie, Ruby, knew to stay back from Mony’s lightning-fast swats.

As Mony grew, however, her feral ways returned. Though I didn’t understand what was going on with her, I knew she was miserable. She wouldn’t let us come near her, and when we did get close enough to touch her, she hissed. Her attitude got so bad that we gave her the nickname “Meany Mony.”

After being hissed at one too many times, my husband said, “Don’t you think we should bring her back up to the farm where she came from? She probably will be much happier there.” I nodded in agreement. “Yes, she’s not at all happy as a city cat. Besides, she would have the barn for protection, and I believe she is quite capable of taking care of herself.”

I bought her a feeder that would hold enough food to carry her through the week. We left her with much trepidation, hoping and praying she would be okay. Sure enough, all went well. Actually, she not only got by, she thrived. Her whole demeanor changed. She started loving on us again. Upon our weekend arrivals, even before the car door would slam shut, we could hear her coming to greet us, meowing her hellos with each step.

After a while, we had more trails cut through our property. On the hilly part, we have two good miles of paths. Hiking the steep terrain helps keep us in shape. Our border collie loves to hike as much as we do. She bounds ahead of us, looking back constantly to make sure we are following her. We can even hike through the summer, if we get out early in the day before it heats up too much.

One day, we had another tag-along. Behind us we heard Mony’s telltale meow walk, just like she does when she comes to greet us. We were amazed that she wanted to hike with us, and we thought for sure she would turn back. But she didn’t. She stuck it out for the entire hike. Now she follows us regularly when we go on our walks.

One summer day, we let too much of the morning slip by before we started on our trek. We soon realized we should have waited until the next day. Sweat pouring off our brows, we looked back and saw poor Mony still behind us, panting, with her ears bright pink. A real trooper, she never stopped to rest. Now that’s some cat, a dedicated hiker, through and through.

When I think of Mony, the hiking cat, she gives me hope for the dream my husband and I have for our property. We want to start a tree farm and grow pesticide-free vegetables for our community. We hope to get involved with Community Supported Agriculture (CSA), whereby people would sign up to receive a portion of our crops on a weekly basis, and to also provide fresh produce to local farmer’s markets.

Who are we, one might ask, to think we can become farmers at midlife? But to us, becoming farmers is like the cat becoming a hiker. My husband has been a corporate executive for eighteen years, and I’ve been a stay-at-home mom. Like Mony, who was miserable in the city, my husband has become extremely uncomfortable with corporate life. On top of being unhappy at work, the daily four-hour commute downtown makes it even harder to face each day. Since we bought our farm property, he lives for the weekends. He loves working outside.

When he’s in the great outdoors, growing and building things, he feels like he’s in his element. I love being his helpmate, too. Although hard work can be a challenge, it totes great rewards, one of the biggies, stress relief. As his work downtown trudges on, worry etches lines in my husband’s face. Spending time at the farm erases those lines.

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