When they were kids, I would take my three daughters and their friends to the creek bordering our farm and let them shoot floating shaving cream cans with a small caliber rifle. In time, they became expert markswomen.
I’d position them on the bridge’s downstream side with the rifle at ready, and toss a can on the upstream side. When it passed under the bridge, they’d begin their fusillade. The mortally wounded cans skittered wildly across the surface, propelled by the release of their contents. The girls kept score for initial hits and the more difficult killing shots when the cans were farther downstream.
One cold afternoon, when the can killers were indulging in this diversion, the creek was near flood stage following heavy rains. As always, I threw a can upstream … but instead of shots, I heard the whole passel of shootists howling.
“There’s a cat down there!” they caterwauled in unison. Leaning over the railing, I saw the cause of their distress. A soaked, shivering kitten was clinging to a bridge piling. Leaving without rescuing the cat was not an option.
My first idea flopped. Having torn a bed sheet into strips, I weighted one end and lowered it to the chilled creature. Perceiving the dangling sheet as a threat, the cat hissed at its salvation.
“Listen, y’all, that cat will get hungry soon and swim to the bank,” I assured them, to no avail.
But mentioning hunger led to Plan B. We tied an open can of sardines to the sheet and lowered it to the frightened feline. Again, no results … only more hissing.
“Dad, you’re a man and must do what a man must do,” one daughter remonstrated. “You must swim out and rescue the poor thing.” I dreaded the chilly dip, but my ego being what it is, I saw an opportunity to be a hero.
At the water’s edge, I removed my boots and shirt, gauged the swift current, moved upstream to a distance that would allow me to intersect the piling, got a running start, and hit the water at full stroke. Instantly, my wan whiteness became gelid grayness.
Fortunately, the triangulation landed me on target. Grabbing the piling with one arm, I coaxed, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” extending a hand.
Glaring into my eyes, the cat leaped and sank twenty claws into my face. Downstream we writhed, the cat fighting to repel a perceived predator, and the preyed-upon man trying to swim and de-cat himself simultaneously.
Finally, having redesigned my face with its claws, the cat released its grip, swam to the bank, scurried away, and was never seen again.
Kids can be so insensitive. Instead of lauding my heroics, they whined because I didn’t hold on to the cat and deliver it to them so that they could give it warmth, food, lots of love, and keep it!
Such incidents make for endless risible conversations in small communities, and for years afterward, I was known as the cat-scratched hero.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
