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Living next to a farm provided me with the opportunity to tame wild and semi-wild cats. Schmeb was my most memorable wild cat. First, he refused to be tamed. I put food out every day. He would not eat it. Even in sub-zero weather, he wouldn't go near the food. At night, my parking lights revealed a pair of reflective green eyes floating above my garbage can. My low beams told me a dark, widely built cat sat behind those eyes. Month after month, from fall through the worst winter of our lives, that cat refused to come near me or the food. But he'd check the garbage can nightly. So I threw the food in the garbage (he trained me well). I worried about him freezing his ears off, getting killed by another cat, or just plain dying from hypothermia.

Until, my pipes froze under my trailer. Why? Because, my Brother told me, some critter had ripped the insulation down and created a bed for itself. "Want me to rip that out?" My Brother wanted to know.

"No just put insulation around the pipes and leave the home there." I knew whose home. Besides, he'd just do it again; he was cold. Spring came and again, I tried putting food on the back step. Until Mr. Skunk met me at my back step; I took shelter in my car until he finished eating (skunks train me even faster).

Then one day, I opened my back door, and in walked a wide, gray tabby cat. I grabbed it and hugged it. Checking him over,the poor thing seemed frail, and, no-o-o! One eye was bludgeoned! I raced him to the Vet. He said the eye would be blind forever and he would try to save the outside of it for appearances. The cat stayed for three days. The call came for me to pick him up. My instructions were, "Keep him in the house for a week." Easy for the vet to say.

Schmeb kept trying to get out. I called the Vet, "Put him in the bathroom." That room was next to my bedroom. All night long, the cat scratched and clawed. By morning, he had ripped up the carpet, scratched halfway through the particle board, and showed no signs of stopping. He gave me that, "I knew you were going to do this to me," ticked off scowl, and went back to work. A couple hours later, I heard a sound like something dragging itself between the floor and sub-floor. Checking the bathroom, yup, he was in a self-made hole. He got stuck, complained, and I told him the facts. "Sorry, can't reach you, you got yourself into it, get yourself out." He must have heard me because backed up and then came back.

The vet called, "We're sorry. The cat is terminally ill with feline leukemia. We wouldn't have done the surgery and everything if we'd known." Tears filled my eyes. Schmeb laid around and seemed listless for a couple of days. I thought, "What have I done? He should be put to sleep." So I spoke to him, "If you want to be put you to sleep, let me know." Two days later, he jumped on the kitchen table, slapped a pen out of my hands, jumped off the table and headed for the door." The answer would be, dear human, "not yet." Outdoors, he wrapped his front, eight-toed, double-catcher's mitts around little stones, puffed out his chest, and let out a y-o-w-l. He told the world,"I'm b-a-c-k!"

He hung around and became an indoor/outdoor cat for three years. He tackled a rat, his size, and barely won. Exhausted, he took a few days to heal up. He studied my Brothers building an addition. Daily, he had an adventure; nightly, he still hung out in the garbage can. Whenever I started to feel sorry for myself, I'd look at my half-blind cat. He never sat around feeling sorry for himself. We were there for each other. Man, I miss that cat.

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