by Brenda Nelson

Created on: November 16, 2009

When I was very young my parents got a kitten. I do not know where the kitten came from, I have very few memories of her, she was calico, and that was also her name, Calico.

When I was in grade five we were to move away. This was not to be a simple move, but a move that would take us across the ocean, from Canada to New Zealand, for a year. Calico was given away to a farm.

When we came back we went to visit her. Indeed my only real memory of her was at this time. She was probably six or seven years of age, and life on the farm had not been as kind as many people might think it would. To a child every cat would be happy on a farm, to the other resident farm cats, this is not so true. Calico, once a house pet, was bottom of the farm feline pecking order. I distinctly remember a scar on her nose. I do not know if my parents asked to have her back, but I know we left without her, and went on to get another kitten.

My parents were good pet owners, our cats were always cared for and spayed or neutered. They even went so far as to build a cat fence around the yard to keep our pets contained.

One day, and I don't know how the conversation started, mom told me a horrible story. I must have made the mistake of asking what happens to farm kittens when farms have too many. Mom had grown up in a rural area and knew the cold truth of it all... the farmers found ways to kill them. One common method of kitten disposal was to put them in a bag and drown them or throw them on a road. I was devastated. Although horses were my main love, I have always had a place in my heart for cats, and yes, years later I had realized that what my mother had told me was in fact the truth.

I suffered from depression as a teen, thoughts I could not share with my parents, I could share with our cat. He spent his nights alternating between mine and my brothers bedrooms. As any cat owner will tell you, the cat never judges, he only offers himself as a listener. Anyone who has held a cat and taken the time to stroke it can tell you their troubles seem to melt for that moment in time they are patting the cat.

Eventually I moved away, and after a series of unfulfilling jobs I found myself working for an animal shelter. This was a career path I wish I had taken sooner. Although it was painful and difficult to deal with on days when pets were euthanized, it was also rewarding when some got homes. I can still look back in my head and picture some of the cats who did not make it.

The public is often cruel

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