by Shoshanna Mccollum

Created on: January 29, 2009

A HOLIDAY FELINE TALE

It was an ordinary Monday when Long Hair did not come by for the evening feeding. It is not unusual for one of the cats to skip a meal, or to not come home for a night.

They have things to do. But when he did not show up the next night, or for breakfast the next morning, we knew we had a problem. The kind that every cat lover dreads when their pet goes missing.

While vehicles out here do strike animals occasionally, unlike greater Long Island, that was not our primary fear of what may have happened to him. On Fire Island, our greatest enemy is the vacant off-season house.

They don't just stand idle. Plumbers come in to turn off the pipes. Real Estate brokers turn the keys to show the dwelling to perspective clients. I well know this is the livelihood of these folks, but I wish some of them would not be so careless and leave doors open for prolonged periods of time. When they finally do close them, and if a creature has wandered in, that house, utility shed or whatever, can become that animal's coffin.

Early December, when he disappeared, is very much within the time window in which this kind of thing happens. And the animals that are at greatest risk are the domesticated ones who are pretty much at ease with the human world.

What made it worse was this cat happened to be a favorite. Only 3-and-a-half-years-old, spirited in nature and handsome, very handsome. Definitely a Maine Coon-type breed with the bushy tail, a mane of fur which grew fuller in the winter, and hairy feet like a hobbit.

His name started more as identification. He was one of a litter of three. As a group they were dubbed "The Three Amigos" but their individual names were plain. Long Hair, because he had long hair. The orange one was named Orange (later shorted to Ringe), and the female who had a smudge on her nose became Smudge Nose.

Some of the ugliest kittens I had ever seen: oversized ears, long exaggerated faces, and utterly savage temperament. Still, we brought them to a pet shop contact in hopes that they might get adopted, but that proved pointless.

When this happens we call it "flunking the mainland" they are introduced into our orphanage of cats for better or worse. Oddly enough, I was not all that disappointed to see them again.

I had grown fond of them. A dear friend of ours had died earlier that summer and I found that their presence softened the grief. For homely kittens, they matured into striking adult cats, and good-natured ones too.

But now Long Hair, the leader

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