Once, we had a cat that would get eaten by an owl.
But before this, Bearcat, was a fine feline. My dad sent this photo in today. This long-time-listener, first-time-caller, cat-blog enthusiast relative of mine was sure to note Bearcat’s “fancy perch”, and you should as well!
Also, please appreciate our very rad 70s style kitchen, even though this photo was taken well into the 80s.
Another photo of Bearcat in aforementioned kitchen portrays her with Willis, the dog my parents got as a wedding gift but had to give to my Babci and Dziadzi because they thought it would eat baby-Erica. Bearcat is bear-brave.
I was really too young to remember much about Bearcat, though I do remember its very whiteness and general movements, in some vague corner of my brain.
And, as the story goes, one day she went missing and no one could find her and the dog brought her body back headless. A sad day for everyone, and just one of the shocking lessons I’ve learned through having outdoor cats. Other Quinn kitties perished in similary-horrible ways, including loss, being stricken by a car, and contracting cat AIDS.
Freedom doesn’t pay.
Joe Quinn, biochemist by day, father all of the time, wrote in early this morning to say that my post yesterday captures most of the story, but “the entirety of Bearcat was not eaten by an owl, just the part above the shoulders. The rest was recovered, and of course properly interred and honored.”
Thank you Joe Quinn, for your dilligent reporting.