The Barn Cat Life
By Christie McGraw, Educational Guide at Bowers School Farm
“Has anything changed in his environment recently?”
That was the key question my veterinarian asked me. Years ago, my cat David began to develop mysterious and troubling symptoms. He started to get very agitated and aggressive with the other cat in my home. He also developed a very painful physical condition. This animal who had spent much of his life purring and curled up in a patch of sunlight on my carpet was suddenly out of sorts and needed to be given sedatives twice a day.
Has anything changed in his environment recently? I searched my mind for that answer as I looked out the large sliding glass door that overlooked our tree-speckled lawn. My eyes fell upon several new birdfeeders I had recently set up. I looked down at David crouched in front of the glass, tail twitching, eyes wide, gray fur bristling. He lunged forward and stopped centimeters from the thick glass. His deepest instincts were at play and I had not seen how consuming they could be. I had set up a zoo exhibit of wild birds for an animal who had a deep need to pounce on everything at this zoo. I finally had my answer. That evening, all of my bird feeders came down.
When I started working at Bowers School Farm as an Educational Guide, I met the farm’s most outgoing barn cat, Turnip. She jogged towards me with a determined meow coming from her slight, wiry, gray, fluffy frame. Her meow was reminiscent of a baby crying- both persistent and sharp. I’ve come to learn that cats don’t actually meow at other cats. Their interactions are far more subtle and varied. They save the brash meow for humans. It is believed that they are imitating the sound of a baby crying. They have devised this call as the quickest way to get our attention and fulfill their needs.
As Turnip approached me I had the same gut feeling that I have with all barn cats: she is adorable and I want to take her home and put her in front of my fireplace with a big can of cat food. With time and some reflection, I know that would be a mistake. Turnip has, in many ways, domesticated herself like cats have been doing for ten thousand years. She has found a place with crops, humans, and endless rodents and has spent the past eleven years patrolling it. She communes with the guests on the farm, discusses her day with the children who seek her out in the barns, and nudges the gardeners as they plant the shady flowers and bushes she will nestle under in the summer. Turnip has no sliding glass door that separates her from her instincts. She doesn’t beg at doors to come inside. She is exactly where she wants to be.
This past winter on a particularly cold and snowy day, I went wandering around the farm looking for Turnip. Part of me was wrestling with the idea that a thin little animal wouldn’t need me on days like this. On my hunt for her, I found evidence of Turnip all over the farm. I saw her prescription cat food. The medicine cabinet and notes from the veterinarian. Her litter box. The warm stacks of hay inside of the hayloft. Finally, I found Turnip asleep on a water heater in one of the barns. She was curled up just like one of my own cats. She looked warm and pleased with the spot she chose. Her life with humans was a symbiotic one. We care for her and she cares for this farm. One study estimated that cats kill billions of rodents a year in the United States alone. I imagine the farm is a particularly fertile place for a cat to hunt. Turnip’s balance between wild and domestic cat is ideal for her and ideal for the huge stores of animal feed she protects.
Before I started working at Bowers, I was a traditional high school teacher for almost two decades. While that job was fulfilling in so many ways, in the last few years I found myself staring out my classroom window a lot. My prep hour was beginning to be taken up by me observing the leaves falling or wondering what birds were gliding on the breeze outside of my second story classroom window. Finally, in my last few months there, I started to use my prep hour to walk. It was less something I simply wanted to do and more something I HAD to do. I would step out of the building and take a huge breath and point myself towards something wild. Something that came from the earth. Something without walls. On very cold February days, I could feel the sting of the icy wind on my cheeks. It felt better than sitting at my desk.
Inside of each of us, we wrestle with our greater instincts to be wild and free and their contrast with our house-cat selves. The beauty of the farm for Turnip and me is that we get both. She gets a pat on the head from a farmer who appreciates her hanging around while they work. I get to see a child’s face engrossed in the moment when they see a herd of horses run past them in an open field at full speed. The sun warms our skin. The wind knots our hair. And both of us get to curl up in our respective warm beds at night, tired from a day well spent.
