Lost and Found

“Gary? Could you please go find Stormy?” My wife asked.

Having kittens on the farm is a risky proposition. It really isn’t safe for naive, unsuspecting, and very curious critters. In addition to wild predators (coyotes, foxes, raccoons, etc), there are sharp things, holes in the ground that go all the way through the earth (probably?), chemicals (we just lost our dog to rat poison), trucks, tractors, cars, and birds of prey. I suspected I was being sent on this quest so she could avoid the carnage she suspected.

While my family prayed, I set out to find the wayward straggler. We acquired Stormy and his sister, Misti, about 4 months ago. They were born to barn cats at a nearby farm. Stormy is very fluffy and beautiful with nice black and white markings. He is also very loving. He'll flop onto your feet without hesitation and turn his soft underbelly up for you to stroke. Misti, on the other hand, is a short-haired, playful beast with sharp claws and an independent spirit.

I would expect Misti to fall into some hole, she is quite inquisitive and frisky. However, neither of them are wise enough to avoid trouble or evade danger. I began to walk around the farm.

First I checked the rubble piles they seem to enjoy exploring. I suspect there are vermin, insects, snakes, and lots of dark places to explore there. Then, I moved on to the various outbuildings — the shop, the grain bins, the quonset hut, and the equipment shed. Nothing. Jennifer suspected he was in one of the abandoned hog sheds, so I saved those for last. At 56 years old, I’ve learned that lost things can always be found in the last place one looks.

The family that owns this farm has lived on the property for four generations. The house we live in was built in 1965 and it is the third house on the property. It remains a working corn and soybean farm, but there have not been hogs, cows, horses, chickens, or other livestock on the property for a decade or two. We seek to correct that and despite the loss of our beloved Dixi dog, we now have three cats, three ducks, and eight baby chicks. There is a fox living near one of the ponds, I’ve spotted a sizeable herd of deer, and the coyotes serenade us with their playful laughter almost every night. With the arrival of Spring, we have a chorus of frogs and song birds that make me feel alive and glad to be away from the traffic and noise of the city.

The hog sheds are long, rectangular buildings, about 30x80 and covered with metal. They are filthy and dangerous, but because we've lived here only a short time, I’ve mostly ignored them. On the other hand, because I enjoy exploring abandoned buildings, I’ve walked through them both a few times. There are holes, feces, old medicine bottles, sharp metal objects, rotting feed, abandoned tools, and the ceiling is beginning to fall in. In addition, there are large holes in the roof, ventilation fans are falling off the exterior walls, and large plastic pipes that open to the outside and slope into a “basement” area underneath the slatted floor.

Until this evening, I’d not given those pipes much thought. But, looking at them empathetically, from a kitten’s perspective, they looked like the perfect place for a curious cat to crawl into. Then, similar to a playground slide, the PVC pipe would swallow the kitten into the bowels of the abandoned hog shed. As a cliche regarding barn doors and horses floated through my head, I realized I should have cat-proofed this building before today.

It was just getting dark as I called out for Stormy. As a solid, American, tough-guy, I could never imagine myself calling out for a cat. But for my kids, I’d wear a pink tutu and dance in the rain if it was important. Saving the life of their beloved kitten certainly ranks up there with important things like food, shelter, and taxes. Therefore, I called for Stormy as if he were the most important person in my life. Go big, or go home.

I thought I heard a faint meow, but I wasn't sure. I called again, but received no response. So, I meowed, and he meowed back. I was able to determine which of the 15 pipes he'd fallen into and my creative mind began to invent a rescue plan. I imagined that he'd fallen into a pit of old hog slop and would have come out if the pipe wasn't so slippery, so I found a long, straight tree branch that would reach to the bottom, stuck it in, and called him. Nothing.

By now it was getting quite dark and when I entered the hog shed I could barely see anything. But my eyes were adjusting to the falling night and I found my way back to the spot where our scared kitty awaited rescue. I didn't want to use the flashlight on my phone, unless absolutely necessary because I wanted to preserve my night vision, but once I arrived into the back of the shed, and received a quiet mew from a frightened kitten, I whipped out my phone and shone the light down through the cracks of the floor.

The flashlight was quite illuminating. I saw a soaking wet kitty sitting on sheet of ice (thank goodness for a last gasp of Winter this week). The ice was floating on a gross puddle of who knows what and that puddle, within the bowels of the hog shed, was about eight inches below the bottom of the offending pipe. To make matters worse, the ice sheet was a couple of feet away from the wall where the pipe terminated into the dungeon of despair.

I knew the floor was made up of slats, and I suspected they were composite decking material, but now with my flashlight aglow, I saw they were made of reinforced concrete. My developing rescue plan considered cutting through the slats with a saw, but discovering they were made of concrete and steel, that plan was quickly abandoned. I rapidly considered other options: a) a sledge hammer, b) the local fire department and the jaws of life, c) a backhoe, or, d) something easier than all of the above.

I explained to Stormy that I needed more tools, asked him to remain calm, and reassured him that I would return — tonight. Then I left him in the dark dungeon of his despair. He was cold, covered in hog slop, and sitting on a sheet of ice. I imagine his fear and future seemed quite uncertain.

Arriving back at the house, everyone was eager for an update.

“Yes, I found him.”

“No, he’s not alright.”

“Yes, he’s alive.”

“No, I don’t know how to rescue him.”

“Yes, keep praying.”

“No, I don’t know how long it will take.”

I grabbed my flashlight and headed back out into the wilds. As I walked out to the shop to get a pick, I recalled the joke we used to tell at the fire station when people would ask if we really rescued cats from trees. “No,” we'd tell them. “Have you ever seen a cat skeleton in a tree?” In other words, cats are pretty good about coming down when they get hungry. In my entire 30+ year emergency services career, I’ve never been called on to rescue a cat — or any other animal for that matter.

“I got this,” I thought. “I’ve rescued people and I’ve been trained to do rescues from really strange situations. Let’s do this.”

Back in the shed with the pitiful kitty, I shined the light through the slats. He hadn't moved, but under the glare of a better flashlight, he definitely looked pathetic and the situation seemed a little hopeless. With the pick, I was able to slide the concrete slats sideways and make a space wide enough to get my arm through. The whole process was like working a puzzle where I had to move slats four or five over from where I actually needed a slot. With the movement of each slat, I gained a half inch or so. Eventually, after about 10–15 minutes, I had a space about 4–5 inches wide and Stormy, the frightened, friendly kitty looked up at me with hope.

I knew I'd only have one opportunity to grab him. If he slipped out of my fingers, he'd fall into the muck. If he fought me coming through the narrow opening, he'd fall through back into the muck. If he began to claw and bite me, I'd do my best to ignore the pain and blood, but most likely, he'd fall back into the muck. I spoke softly to him, reached down into the bowels of purgatory, and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

I missed a little, didn’t actually grab his neck, but had a firm hold on about a half inch of fur. As I raised him, I was careful not to strip him off on the concrete slats. His sister would have been squirming, scratching, biting, and squalling. But this sweet cat actually reached up and grabbed the floor boards and helped pull himself through.

As he stepped into salvation, he shook a little, looked around, and I could swear he breathed a sigh of relief. He was covered in hog slop and who knows what. His usually fluffy tail was black with yuck, and was embarrassingly slender. For a moment I thought about wrapping him in my arms (I can always wash my jacket), but I figured the walk home would help him shake off some toxic waste and I knew he'd follow me.

When we arrived back at the house, the kids got me a towel and I wrapped him up and carried him to the kitchen sink where we gave him a good bathing. For the first time, he resisted my efforts to rectify his issues, but as far as cat bathing goes, it was one of the best experiences I’ve ever had. If I had tried to bath Misti, I'd be clawed to shreds and would be left lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor.

We said prayers of thanksgiving and celebrated finding the lost prodigal kitty. After drying him off, we put the siblings in the laundry room with fresh food and water. The next morning, Stormy seemed no worse for the wear, but not trusting that he'd learned his lesson, my Smiling Son and I ventured out to kitty-proof the hog sheds.