Smoko

All my life there have been farm cats on the farm. Outside cats with big personalities. When I was really young, before we even moved onto the farm and my Grandma still lived in the farmhouse, there was one indoor cat called Priscilla, a precious tiny white fluffy thing that delighted us children after the slightly mean dairy cats hissed at us from above their saucers of milk. Priscilla, like all the farm cats, was a temporary indoor kitten, allowed in the farmhouse laundry but not the house (which was particularly and precisely clean before we moved in.) She had incredible blue eyes and pretty pointy ears and early on my grandma identified that she was not just magically unfazed by that legendary big old slamming laundry door, but deaf. Priscilla remains forever in our hearts as a tiny white kitten that fitted in our hands, because one day she got through that laundry door and was skittled on the road, to the utter dismay of everyone. Grandma never got another cat.

When she moved to the retirement village a few years later and we moved in, we introduced a succession of farm cats that has never ended. They were dairy cats and hayshed cats. Chicken-coop rat-killing cats. None as pretty as Priscilla, all hefty and useful, co-workers to the rest of us, living out long lives on the back verandah or under the house, eating simple kibble and the rabbits that they occasionally caught.

Smoko arrived here ten years ago after one of the other farm cats passed away under a tree right before a Milkwood Permaculture workshop. My dear friend Kirsten quietly wrapped what looked like a sleeping cat, and helped a distressed five-year-old Ivy bury him after class. A few weeks later Ivy chose Smoko from an RSPCA cage, almost a fully grown cat, who started in the farmhouse laundry but transitioned outside fairly quickly. Smoko was always a bit different. First, this cat liked Ivy, but LOVED me. Like, totally imprinted. If I walked up the paddock late at night, this cat would come too. It sat outside the commercial kitchen door waiting for me, on the cheeseroom steps whenever I was there, late at night, early morning, anytime. If I turned around, Smoko was there. Adam called her my direwolf. My witchy familiar.

Over the last fifteen years here we’ve been planting trees, shrubs, ferns, you name it. We’ve done a hecka lot of planting. This has brought birds. You can see where this is going. One day a few weeks ago Adam and I were coming home mid morning together, and at the front door found Smoko with a blue Kingfisher in her mouth. An actual Kingfisher. Obviously we were totally horrified. We were in time to quickly and carefully extract the bird, took her inside, popped her in a box, looked her up in our bird book, fed her some meal worms while we carefully observed what looked like a wing injury and figured out whether WIRES or the vet was our next step. At the same time we moved Smoko indoors permanently. I called my sister in law who is a cat expert and she gave advice on kitty litters and how to keep cats off kitchen tables (water in a spray bottle) and what to feed an indoor cat.

Exactly twenty four hours later I was sitting in the dining room with a visitor when I saw a flash of blue out of the corner of my eye out on the doorstep. I was so confused, I was sure the Kingfisher was in the box about to go to the vet. I stepped out and a Kingfisher hopped right in front of me and looked up. I picked it up. This was a second Kingfisher, on the doorstep, same place, one day later. My heart actually stopped. What in the world? A mate? We assume. We popped him in the box, he gobbled up some meal worms, and we relocated both Kingfishers temporarily to our pottery shed which had closed doors but open windows, in case they might both fly away together. He did, he stayed up in the rafters for a few hours, but eventually left her behind, her wing was too injured. We whisked her down to the vet and waited. The news wasn’t good. The wing was unfixable and so she was euthanised. We haven’t seen her mate again.

Meanwhile Smoko spent a few weeks stretched out on the couch before breaking out of every screen door by punching them persistently. Adam fixed the front and back doors a few times, but put a bell on her in case. The next day she broke out another door and left a rat on the doorstep to say thanks.

Smoko is the very last cat at Buena Vista. We are acutely aware of the damage cats do to fauna, and we are responsible for her until the end. No more farm cats here. And if you’re in the area and see a forlorn Kingfisher, please tell him we did our best and that we are very sorry.

For me it’s a little bitter as I love this furry outdoorsy direwolf, fifteen-year-old Ivy is indifferent. She’s moved onto horses. More on that next week.

Fi x