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By Kate Reynolds
"Willa Cather sat under the tree all morning again," Alan said.
I didn't have to ask what Willa was doing under the hundred-foot pine that dominated our backyard. She crouched under the branches day after day, hoping a bird would fall out of its nest.
Willa, who resembled an overstuffed penguin, was the least athletic of our four cats. When young, she'd never taken to hunting the way her siblings had. She preferred canned food, served twice daily. Now old and heavy, Willa showed even less inclination to hunt. She'd taken to hunkering under the tree, head tilted upward, gaze fixed. Willa knew that birds have nests. She must have figured that, eventually, her luck would change.
Next morning, fat Willa claimed her usual spot, whiskers aquiver.
"Won't work," I called to her. "Birds hardly ever fall out of trees. Get real."
Willa ignored my advice and sat under the tree all spring.
One day, Willa didn't show up in her usual spot.
Good. She'd finally learned. But I was mistaken. Willa had apparently realized her current scheme was unworkable, and, by early summer, she'd refined her plan.
"Who dragged in the mouse?" I asked one June evening.
"I'll take care of it," Alan said. "Must have been Thackeray or Dickens."
I said nothing, but I had reason to believe it wasn't either of our boys. Thackeray had napped all afternoon, and Dickens never hunted mice. That left Charlotte Brontë or . . . nah, impossible.
Dead mice continued to appear. Our puzzlement grew to amazement when we concluded that Willa, and only Willa, could be catching the mice. Still, we couldn't quite believe it.
"How does she do it? She's too fat, too old to hunt."
Next day, I tracked her. "She's not going far," I reported. "There's a pack of mice under the woodpile."
Toward summer's end, I followed Willa into the backyard. I brought a chair and a large cup of coffee, expecting a long wait. Mousing with Willa is not a sport for the impatient. I waited and watched.
Willa's plan was ingenious. She climbed the woodpile and crouched above the den opening. She perched, motionless, until her prey grew complacent. When a mouse ventured out, Willa's black paw slammed him down.
That summer, Willa did in the entire rodent pack. One after another, they fell to her patient paw.
* * *
Willa stretches out on my lap. She turned sixteen not long ago, but, tomorrow, we have an appointment with her vet. Willa has cancer. There's nothing else we can do.
I ruffle Willa's fur and realize how lucky I am to know her. Smart cat. She taught me an advantage of growing older: knowing where to position yourself so what you seek comes to you.
Willa looks up.
I swear she's smiling.
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Marilyn L. Ali
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