Big Orange
Friends called Allen “Yahua”, after a South American native tribe who very effectively use blowguns in their daily lives. He collected and owned blowguns of various lengths and tube sizes from all over the world; and had used a couple of blowguns to kill sentries or to surprise and confuse smaller Viet Cong or NVA groups while in the army during his Vietnam tour. He was cordial and outgoing, a very nice guy….unless he was upset. Now, he was a student at OU and making successful progress toward his PhD in some aspect of Chemistry. His relaxation time was dedicated to blowguns and their use. He was an avid authority and user; and strangely enough, extremely accurate target shooter.
Enter Big Orange, a large, orange still-a-male cat with “bushy” fur and no place to call home. Allan would often sit on his back stoop in the early evening, weather allowing, as he ate his supper. This would allow him to practice a few shots during the meal. One winter evening, as “Yahua” sat on his back porch practicing, he heard a “meow….meow”. He looked around the small back yard and saw a large orange cat sitting beside the empty doghouse in the far corner. The doghouse was there and empty when Allen moved in. The owner said he could do whatever he wanted with the doghouse, so he had done nothing. “Meow”. It seemed a little more urgent this time. Allen held out part of his tuna sandwich. The cat’s ears leaned forward and he flinched. Allen took a large part of his sandwich and hurled it into the yard about halfway between them. The large orange cat stared at him for a minute or so, then ventured forward. He arrived at the sandwich and stared at Allen for a few seconds. Then he sniffed the sandwich. He looked back up at Allen, then ate every morsel of the sandwich…even the bread. Allen watched quietly, then threw more sandwich about halfway between them. This time the cat had little doubt and hurried to the new piece of sandwich. Again, he looked up at Allen, then gobbled up the second piece. He looked up, hoping for more. There it was, right in front of Allen. Did he dare? He did. He slowly walked over and looked up at Allen, then started eating, this time more slowly. He looked up at Allen a couple of times while he ate the piece of sandwich. As his attention was on the last bite, Allen slowly reached down and lightly stroked the big cat’s back. The cat pushed his butt up and into Allen’s hand. He was remembering human hands. After a few rubs, the big cat rubbed on Allen’s leg and the deal was sealed. Over the next four years, they became best friends. Allen named him Big Orange. He was a great cat, very affectionate and comforting. He liked to play with toys and especially seemed to enjoy a good game of fetch. He slept with Allen every night. Yes, Allen loved this cat, probably more than he realized, and certainly more than he would admit.
One fall morning, Allen was wheeling his 10 speed out the front door on his way to the chemistry lab. He was concerned that Big Orange had not come home last night; but, after all, Big Orange was still-a-male, never neutered. Still, this was the first time in Allen’s memory that Big Orange did not come home in the evening. He was concerned, but he had been conducting some lab tests that required some growth time over the weekend and he was eager to see the results. He noticed that old Mrs. Farley’s two old bull dogs were fighting over something fuzzy and orange. It looked like a cat’s tail. He got closer. It was a cat’s tail. He was mortified. They had killed Big Orange and were both pulling viciously at his tail! He looked for a cat carcass, but saw nothing. He felt like he could cry, but didn’t. Instead, over the course of the day, he seethed. He planned the demise of those evil bull dogs. They would pay with their lives.
It took a couple of days, but he found the proper ingredients to make the poison he would use. He had decided he would deliver the poison with darts from one of his blowguns. No, those bull dogs would not suffer like Big Orange undoubtedly had. They would die quickly, with minimal pain or sickness. He soaked the darts at the lab and carried them home in a safe container. Old Mrs. Farley always let her dogs out in the evening, usually just before dark. He would be ready. He selected the blowgun and sat on his front porch….waiting patiently. The shots would be about 90 feet, so he had selected one of his longer blowguns.
There they were! They both ran to the chain link fence to bark at him and to pee. “This is too easy” he thought as he loaded the first dart into the long blowgun. He took a deep breath and let fly. The first dart was a direct hit into the right hip of one of the bull dogs. Allen loaded the second dart and waited for his shot. The other bull dog was scratching his butt on the fence and it would be his demise. Allen took another deep breath and let fly. Another direct hit. He waited and watched. In a matter of seconds, both had keeled over and were breathing their last. First one died, then the other. “Take that, you bastards” Allen thought. He casually walked over and looked at their bodies. Neither was breathing. Both had died very close to the fence, so he didn't even have to go into her yard. He just squeezed his hand and arm through and removed the darts. “An eye for eye” thought Allen as he walked back across the street to his home. He put up the blowgun and put the remaining poison darts in the fridge. He felt very satisfied with his actions as he pedaled to school. Later in the day and for the first time, he thought how old Mrs. Farley would feel when she found her dead pets. She would feel as bad as he had and did….maybe worse. It made him a little sad. He watched TV and ate a couple of slices of leftover pizza that evening. He wasn’t angry any more….just sad. He missed Big Orange. He even considered going to the animal shelter and adopting another cat.
A couple days passed. He had heard the commotion when old Mrs. Farley found her dead bull dogs. Neighbors said she was near hysterics and could not stop crying. Now, he felt a little remorse; but nothing like the remorse he would feel the next morning. He got up a little late and was in a hurry. He would pass on breakfast and go straight to the lab. As he grabbed his 10 speed and his backpack, he heard a familiar “meow”…..then another. He walked into the kitchen and opened the back door. There was Big Orange, a little dirty and scruffy looking, but alive and well. For the very first time, Big Orange jumped up to Allen’s arms and purred. He purred big. He was glad to be home. Both of them were glad he was home. As Allen opened a can of cat food, a singular thought suddenly hit him like a ton of bricks. He had killed old Mrs. Farley’s dogs for nothing. They had not killed his cat. Oh, my God. What had he done!? What should he do?!
He gathered his nerve and walked across the street to Mrs. Farley’s house. He rang her doorbell and waited. She came to the door and was very cordial. She didn’t get many visitors and she invited him in for some tea or coffee. Allen waited in the living room while she prepared the tea. This was going to be difficult for Allen. When she brought it in, he was on edge. He wasn’t sure how to start the conversation, so he just blurted out his confession. “Mrs. Farley, I killed your bull dogs. I thought they killed my cat. I love my cat and he was missing. I saw them tugging on an orange cat tail and I got very angry…..but they didn’t kill my cat. I love my cat, but he wasn’t missing because they killed him. He was out “tom catting” for a few days. I am so sorry. I am so sorry. All I can offer is to replace them with a pair of bull dog puppies….if that will help your pain. If there is something else that you feel is appropriate, please tell me.” He knew he was at her mercy, that she could call the police and get him into real trouble.
Mrs. Farley looked at Allen with warm and understanding eyes. “Thank you for your honesty, Allen. We all love our pets. They are our very best friends. My boys were very old and their time was coming quickly. Bulldogs don’t usually make it past 12 to 14 years and both of them were 16. I would have never known you had anything to do with their deaths. You really do not have to do anything. I would have felt this pain no matter when they passed on. They were getting steroid shots to manage their aches and pains and allergies. You may have done them a favor.” “Please let me get you a pair of puppies" begged Allen. "You’ll love them too and you need the company and comfort.” She smiled. “If it will help you deal with your mistake and your feelings, I will gladly accept a couple of puppies. They don’t have to be bull dogs. Any pair of boys will do.”
And so it was. Allen found a pair of Corgi pups at Second Chance two days later. When Allen brought them home, Big Orange got to meet them. He was very cordial and even tried to clean them. They seemed to like him too. Mrs. Farley was thrilled. She named them Mutt and Jeff, after some cartoon characters of the past.
Allen learned lessons about jumping to conclusions and facing up to responsibility. He and Mrs. Farley were friends until her death, just a few years back. Big Orange had lived a long and well-loved life, but he had used all 9 of his lives. Allen took Mutt and Jeff for their remaining years when Mrs. Farley passed away. They are all gone now, but “Yahua” remembers it all so well.
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