Tonks the cat was the first animal I ever met that looked at me like I looked at it.
Anita, my step-mother, was known for discovering the helpless and giving them life. She did it with her first husband, my father, my brother, myself, and every animal she ever found. Tonks the cat was no different. This time, Anita discovered a mangled maincoon cat. Burrs and bugs had clinged to every tuft of its fur. It was mighty, with ferocious rotting teeth and furious green eyes.
The cat had been abandoned in a trailer park dumpster, in cold Prince George winter. Small snowflakes clinged to the burrs on it's fur. My step-mother, being the wonderful woman she is, rescued the cat. leading it back to the trailer with fishy treats and kissy sounds.
Our little family was horrified at the creature. But Anita was persistent on its worth, coaxing the cat into their tiny bathtub and creating a melting pot made of every variation of dollar store soap in her arsonal.
Leaving behind a pitch black soup of dirt and grime by the time it finally escaped. Anita left that bathroom coated in sharp, red scratches and mysterious smells. Regardless, she insisted it come to the forever home with them.
The forever home was a long acre-sized stretch of mud and marsh, 10 km north of the airport. I spent the summer of my seventeenth year exploring our new land, followed by my angry little brother, my then childlike step-sisters, and Tonks, the mischievous little cat. We'd push our mens size 12 rain boots into the poo-pond running with Tonks as it caught mice beneath the burrows of cattails and tall grass.
When the sun burrowed under the trees on our acre, Anita would coax us inside with the smell of warm banana bread and vanilla tea. we would all snuggle up on the loveseats as I read aloud to the kids. Tonks rubbing their nose into my teacup, before crawling into my sister's arms.
In the end, Tonks was too ferocious for their own good. They had spent every night of their first spring with us trying to scare off, and eventually fight the mighty cougar who was lurking on our acre.
Anita found Tonks on a windy night in late april. I remember the sounds of harsh pelts of rain hitting the tin roof as they told us not to look out the window.
Tonks was shredded into bits, mixed into the rocky dirt road. Roadkill.
Nobody talked that day. Instead we stomped our boots out in the harsh morning rain and held a funeral for the fiercest cat to ever live. Burying him among the cattails of the poo pond, leaving a scatter of hand-picked wildflowers and cat treats at Tonks' homemade grave.
Anita, my step-mother, was known for discovering the helpless and giving them life. She did it with her first husband, my father, my brother, myself, and every animal she ever found. Tonks the cat was no different. This time, Anita discovered a mangled maincoon cat. Burrs and bugs had clinged to every tuft of its fur. It was mighty, with ferocious rotting teeth and furious green eyes.
The cat had been abandoned in a trailer park dumpster, in cold Prince George winter. Small snowflakes clinged to the burrs on it's fur. My step-mother, being the wonderful woman she is, rescued the cat. leading it back to the trailer with fishy treats and kissy sounds.
Our little family was horrified at the creature. But Anita was persistent on its worth, coaxing the cat into their tiny bathtub and creating a melting pot made of every variation of dollar store soap in her arsonal.
Leaving behind a pitch black soup of dirt and grime by the time it finally escaped. Anita left that bathroom coated in sharp, red scratches and mysterious smells. Regardless, she insisted it come to the forever home with them.
The forever home was a long acre-sized stretch of mud and marsh, 10 km north of the airport. I spent the summer of my seventeenth year exploring our new land, followed by my angry little brother, my then childlike step-sisters, and Tonks, the mischievous little cat. We'd push our mens size 12 rain boots into the poo-pond running with Tonks as it caught mice beneath the burrows of cattails and tall grass.
When the sun burrowed under the trees on our acre, Anita would coax us inside with the smell of warm banana bread and vanilla tea. we would all snuggle up on the loveseats as I read aloud to the kids. Tonks rubbing their nose into my teacup, before crawling into my sister's arms.
In the end, Tonks was too ferocious for their own good. They had spent every night of their first spring with us trying to scare off, and eventually fight the mighty cougar who was lurking on our acre.
Anita found Tonks on a windy night in late april. I remember the sounds of harsh pelts of rain hitting the tin roof as they told us not to look out the window.
Tonks was shredded into bits, mixed into the rocky dirt road. Roadkill.
Nobody talked that day. Instead we stomped our boots out in the harsh morning rain and held a funeral for the fiercest cat to ever live. Burying him among the cattails of the poo pond, leaving a scatter of hand-picked wildflowers and cat treats at Tonks' homemade grave.