Sommarkatter

Nästan varje dag kan man nu läsa, i både svensk och utländsk press, och höra på radion, om sommarkatter som lämnats kvar på landet att klara sig bäst de kan. Ofta rör det sig om dräktiga katter, som inte har stora chanser när vintern närmar sig.

Att jag aldrig tänkt på att min älskling kanske var en övergiven sommarkatt — som ungkatt kom han ju till oss i september. 

Och Leobold, som jag berättat om tidigare sökte också asyl här en ruggig höstdag.
När det gäller manxkatten Kurrt-James Vicktårr Y. är jag mer tveksam — visserligen kom även han till oss i september, också han en ungkatt. Men han var kastrerad, och det tyder väl på att man tänkt behålla honom — men varför man inte annonserade, eller svarade på vår annons är mer än jag begriper.

Det får mig att tänka på Captain Jim, i ”Anne's House of Dreams” av L. M. Montgomery, han hade inte mycket till övers för sommargäster som lämnade kvar sina katter när de återvände till sta’n på höstkanten.

Anne was just going to ask what his life-book was when the First Mate created a diversion by springing upon Captain Jim's knee. He was a gorgeous beastie, with a face as round as a full moon, vivid green eyes, and immense, white, double paws. Captain Jim stroked his velvet back gently.

"I never fancied cats much till I found the First Mate," he remarked, to the accompaniment of the Mate's tremendous purrs. "I saved his life, and when you've saved a creature's life you're bound to love it. It's next thing to giving life. There's some turrible thoughtless people in the world, Mistress Blythe. Some of them city folks who have summer homes over the harbor are so thoughtless that they're cruel. It's the worst kind of cruelty—the thoughtless kind. You can't cope with it. They keep cats there in the summer, and feed and pet 'em, and doll 'em up with ribbons and collars. And then in the fall they go off and leave 'em to starve or freeze. It makes my blood boil, Mistress Blythe. One day last winter I found a poor old mother cat dead on the shore, lying against the skin-and-bone bodies of her three little kittens. She'd died trying to shelter 'em. She had her poor stiff paws around 'em. Master, I cried. Then I swore. Then I carried them poor little kittens home and fed 'em up and found good homes for 'em. I knew the woman who left the cat and when she come back this summer I jest went over the harbor and told her my opinion of her. It was rank meddling, but I do love meddling in a good cause."

"How did she take it?" asked Gilbert.

"Cried and said she 'didn't think.' I says to her, says I, 'Do you s'pose that'll be held for a good excuse in the day of Jedgment, when you'll have to account for that poor old mother's life? The Lord'll ask you what He give you your brains for if it wasn't to think, I reckon.' I don't fancy she'll leave cats to starve another time."

"Was the First Mate one of the forsaken?" asked Anne, making advances to him which were responded to graciously, if condescendingly.

"Yes. I found HIM one bitter cold day in winter, caught in the branches of a tree by his durn-fool ribbon collar. He was almost starving. If you could have seen his eyes, Mistress Blythe! He was nothing but a kitten, and he'd got his living somehow since he'd been left until he got hung up. When I loosed him he gave my hand a pitiful swipe with his little red tongue. He wasn't the able seaman you see now. He was meek as Moses. That was nine years ago. His life has been long in the land for a cat. He's a good old pal, the First Mate is."

Ja, det är en av de senare böckerna i serien om ”Anne på Grönkulla”, en bok som jag var tämligen likgiltig inför när jag som trettonåring läste den första gången.Varken naturbeskrivningar eller vuxenlivet intresserade mig — då. Nu läser jag med förtjusning om solnedgångar och noterar med intresse alla beskrivningar av havets färger och romantiska beskrivningar av vindens lek. Med dagens måttstock, naturligtvis lika förlegat som kilometerlånga rimmade dikter, med hjärta och smärta. 

Anne never forgot the loveliness of the view that broke upon them when they had driven over the hill behind the village. Her new home could not yet be seen; but before her lay Four Winds Harbor like a great, shining mirror of rose and silver. Far down, she saw its entrance between the bar of sand dunes on one side and a steep, high, grim, red sandstone cliff on the other. Beyond the bar the sea, calm and austere, dreamed in the afterlight. The little fishing village, nestled in the cove where the sand-dunes met the harbor shore, looked like a great opal in the haze. The sky over them was like a jewelled cup from which the dusk was pouring; the air was crisp with the compelling tang of the sea, and the whole landscape was infused with the subtleties of a sea evening. A few dim sails drifted along the darkening, fir-clad harbor shores. A bell was ringing from the tower of a little white church on the far side; mellowly and dreamily sweet, the chime floated across the water blent with the moan of the sea. The great revolving light on the cliff at the channel flashed warm and golden against the clear northern sky, a trembling, quivering star of good hope. Far out along the horizon was the crinkled gray ribbon of a passing steamer's smoke.