Feline v canine. An age-old battle. Sadly, one that is fought daily on our farm. Whether it be the dogs trying to chase down the cats, or the cats strutting just beyond a fence-the war wages on.
We have two barn cats (technically shed cats): Silo and Sage. I have always held cats in disdain, mostly due to allergies. But also because they aren’t dogs. They are aloof, arrogant, even narcissistic. Who wants their pet to be that human? However, my youngest finally convinced us to get cats. His version involved cats in the house; the compromise was barn cats that we would make sure were friendly.
We found two beautiful females (spoiler alert-one was male), named them Silo and Binks, loved them, worked them into the outside slowly, and all was well. Binks was the first casualty of the war. We had the cats locked up in a crate, in a shed, behind half doors. Bec, our long haired dachshund (dachshund translates to : I will kill anything on a farm just watch me in German) managed to slip in, and get one bite at Binks. The poor girl was gone quickly, but that memory, that guilt of not doing more still stings.
Silo (still a girl!) needed a friend. We found Sage, a close match to Binks being mostly black with orange spread throughout. Lesson learned, we protected them from elements and dogs for a full year. As they were full grown, despised the dogs, and could dole out a wicked claw swipe, they moved permanently to the shed. We also had them spayed, and found out that Silo would be in need of a neuter instead (Sidenote-we really never checked. We were told they were girls, oops).
The benefit of barn cats is obvious: less mice. Our young Irish Setter does a great job killing mice-well, catching them and playing with them. The cats though, they made a noticeable dent in mice. Sage even took to sneaking in the chicken house as fall approached; chicken house mice problem gone. They also made good companions. After the neuter, Silo has never been as friendly as pre-dejeweling.
Sage is the opposite. If we sit to spend time with goats or sheep-Sage is on us. I mean on us. Climbing, rubbing. She can see no reason we would prefer to pet a goat over her. There is that arrogant narcissism. If Molly or I are too close to the fence and bend over, she will make a top rope dive onto our backs and shoulders. Her acrobatics usually end in her being pulled off amid several colorful words.
As for the battle, it was a stalemate. Both cats knew where to run for safety. They would sit high on a post as the dogs barked and howled madly at them. They also knew that one-on-one, the dogs rarely bothered. And if Molly and I were there, the dogs were chastened to keep their distance-which they did.
It was inevitable, however, that one day Sage would try to saunter up to Molly, making a huge mistake. The dogs (all 6) were in the front of the house with me, and as I came around the chase was on. Sage was hampered by the snow, and ended up on her back, scratching away while all the dogs barked (and we assumed chopped away). Molly made a mad rush, executed a diving tackle the envy of any linebacker, and Sage scampered up a post. I followed huffing and puffing, grabbed Sage, and I tried to look her over. With the dog chaos, the poor cat was not in the mood for me, but I brought her into the house for a full examination.
Molly arrived in the house as I looked over Sage.
“There’s blood!” she pointed out. I had yet to find even a scratch, where was the blood from? Turns out-me. Despite the cold weather gear Sage landed a solid claw on my wrist, and I lost more blood than she.
The final score-the dogs 1-they got her down; the cat 1-she escaped unharmed and drew the only blood; Jon -2. Not only did I have the scratch that was an ugly reminder, but Sage imparted another gift according to the doctor: Cat Scratch disease. My knuckle began to ache, then swell, then the pain spread across my hand and fingers. Seriously-I broke up the fight. I saved the cat. I checked her out, let her be in the garage, bought her special food.
What did the aloof, arrogant, narcissistic little beast give me? Two hours at walk-in and a course of antibiotics!
PS Add another trip, steroids, a big shot, to my tally.