I live on a farm in Iowa where barn cats are part of the landscape. You don’t go to a pet store and buy a cat; they just show up on your property, then it’s up to you whether you make them feel welcome to stay. I’ve always been a dog person. But cats are clever and they found a way to ensure they could change that, change me.
A year and a half ago when the last of our dogs, Peanut, our Chihuahua rescue, died of congestive heart failure, a cat showed up on our farm. She was wary at first, but after a few solid meals she soon realized that we were rockstar foster parents. We started calling her Linda. She eventually let us pet her, though she mostly maintained a safe distance up in the rafters where the bats roost.
Because we care so much about the well-being of animals—and because we can afford it—we took her to the vet for spaying and shots. I had found a home for her with a friend in Ames, but the vet instructed us to keep her confined for two weeks before handing her off.
At the same time Linda recovered from her surgery, I was recovering from my grief over the loss of Peanut. We snuggled in bed together, comforting each other. I petted her for hours, which is a scientifically proven form of therapy. Her fur was so soft. Her purring so soothing. And her appreciation so palpable—after all she was curled up on a down comforter instead of a prickly hay bale—that I told my friend sorry, we’ve decided to keep her.
A few days later Linda’s sister showed up. She looked so much like Linda we thought we were hallucinating when we spotted her outside. The sister, who we called Gypsy, was more feral. We couldn’t catch her for the scheduled vet appointment and when we saw her next, she was in the hay loft—with her five kittens.
Around this time there was a black and white tom cat who had made himself at home. We called him Lewis. It was clear by the colors that he was the father of the kittens. Lewis was easier to get into the pet carrier for a trip to the vet and we got him neutered, and eventually got the five kittens fixed too. Gypsy, however, was still eluding us and, in the meantime, she had another litter of kittens—three this time, putting the total number of cats at eleven.
Nobody needs eleven cats. Not even the craziest of cat ladies.
Animal shelters are already overrun with strays, so I tried to find homes for them myself. I posted kitten videos on social media. Who could resist that kind of cuteness? Surely, I would find people to adopt them. But in rural Iowa, every farm has its own ever-growing population of cats. Only one local farmer said yes with the caveat that they wouldn’t provide food or vet care. That is the norm for stray cats; if they’re allowed to stay they have to fend for themselves. My heart is way too soft to let that happen.
I never wanted cats. I was allergic to them as a kid. I find them too aloof, too picky, and too independent. They’ll head off to god-knows-where for days, sometimes weeks, leaving you to think they’re dead, only to show up and act like they’d never left. A dog never tortured me like that.
As much as I’d love to rescue another dog, I can’t right now because we still have all eleven cats. The longer we tried to find homes for them, the more we got attached. And vice versa. Even my partner Doug, a stoic-leaning farmer, couldn’t part with any of them, despite the sizable vet bills and industrial-sized bags of food. “They’re so happy here,” he conceded in a tender-hearted tone. Like I said, cats are clever.
Ours are not your average barn cats. They are all fixed. They are all healthy, well fed, friendly, and have shiny, thick coats. They mostly live outside in our various barns, but they are allowed to come inside if they want. They are family members. We are such cat people now that we even went to the Cat Video Fest in Burlington. The cats all have names: besides Linda and Lewis, there’s Braveheart, Smudge, Target and Bullseye—named for their circular markings—and Gypsy, their mom, who we finally got fixed.
They are dog-like sometimes in that they beg for food, they like to nap, and they even like to go on walks with us. You will sometimes see us walking down the gravel road with a herd of cats.
In the way that Linda helped me through my grief over Peanut, these charming, loving felines have provided the calm and comfort I needed to get through the long, excruciating grind of this election. And they will continue to do so as we move forward in its aftermath. If I’ve learned anything from cats—and from animals in general—it’s that they’re good at adapting and that no matter what happens they carry on. And so will we.
