When I was 13, 3 kittens were born on the family farm. It would have been perfect meme material, as mama seemed to have run out of ink: one black male, one grey female and another white female. Eventually the time came and we had to find homes for the three kittens as our farm only had room for one more cat. I used my ‘oldest sister’ bullying and aggressive nature, fighting tooth and nail for the white one, Sprite. In some ways I feel bad for how hard I fought. I probably wasn’t a very nice sister to have when I was a teenager, but that’s another story.
Sprite grew up to be the great white terror of the farm, slaughtering everything from mice, squirrels, birds, and has even been witnessed chasing deer out of the yard. My dad was always fond of saying “That cat has got some jam!” as he would update me with stories of that little cat inspiring fear into anything that moved.
Farm cats have a good, but sometimes risky life. My dad built each cat and dog their own little homes that were safe from bigger predators, always full of food, heated against the frigid Canadian winters. Despite our best efforts, we would often find our beloved cats had become prey to things bigger and meaner than they were. I would cry every time, and we all wondered when the little white ball of fuzz named Sprite would meet her end. In winter, she was perfectly camouflaged. But come summertime, I would always wonder if this was the summer she would be picked up by an owl or torn apart by a pack of coyotes.