My home is located on a hill, and birds of prey such as hawks and hawks circling over the forest are mostly parallel to my line of sight or slightly lower occasionally. Often as soon as I looked down, I could see a pair of big dark brown wings about six feet wide, spreading flat in the golden sun, flying close to the curved edge of the forest. Under the hillside, the field has been ploughed. It is better to choose a furrow to lie down, preferably the deep pit at the turning point of the plow head. Lying in it is equivalent to hiding under a barrier made of grass and leaves. Although the legs are suntanned by the sun, they still look pale and eye-catching when placed on the reddish brown soil. You should sprinkle some soil on the legs, or just bury them in the soil. A flock of birds circled hundreds of feet up and down, keeping their eyes on the fields, searching for mice, poultry or moles. Pick any bird, maybe it's the one right above your head. Maybe at that moment, it seemed that the bird looked at itself for a moment, staring at the calm and curious eyes of human beings with indifferent bird eyes. In the middle of its huge wings, under its narrow body like a bullet, its two sharp claws are ready for launch. About half a minute later, no, just 20 seconds later, the bird suddenly dived, jumped on the selected small animals, and immediately flew up, flapping its huge wings, leaving only a burst of red dust smoke and a warm smell. The sky has returned to its original appearance: under the vast and quiet sky, a group of birds are flying in the east and west. However, just above the top of the mountain, there may be an eagle circling and patrolling, ready to dive down from the side and jump on the selected prey - one of our chickens. Sometimes it even flies upstream along a mountain road in the forest, constantly adjusting the direction of its wings to avoid the overhanging branches. Why do these eagles prefer to fly at high speed instead of falling to the ground from high altitude, instead of walking over the mountain road in the forest?
Our chicken pen is a fresh meat supply station for eagles, owls and wild cats for miles around. At least their enemies firmly believe in it. Our chickens move freely on the open mountaintop without screen and barrier all day long. The dazzling black, brown and white feathers, the cooing sound, the rustling sound of feet, and the swaggering appearance when walking are all the best signs to cause the predators to attack.
There is a practice in African farms that they like to remove the covers of kerosene lamps and gasoline tanks and put some metal bright blocks inside to reflect the sun. It is said that this method can scare away birds. However, I once saw an eagle fly down from a tree, ignoring a large group of black and white people, cats and dogs around, and taking away a sleepy fat hatching hen. Another time, when we were drinking tea outside, an eagle suddenly swooped down from the air and grabbed a half cat hiding under a bush from the eyes of a dozen people. If you suddenly hear a squeaking or flapping sound of wings in the long, hot, silent noon, there are only two possibilities: either a hen is trampled by a rooster, or another chicken is captured by an eagle. Fortunately, there are many chickens in our house. Then again, there are so many eagles nearby that you can't shoot them all with guns. No matter when you stand on the hillside and look up, you can certainly find an eagle circling in the air within half a mile. A small shadow is rapidly passing the tree tops and across the fields hundreds of feet below its body. When I sit under a tree to rest, I often see small animals on the ground. When I find that the ominous shadow cast by the huge bird wings in the sky falls on me, or blocks the sunlight on the trees and grass, I am either too frightened to move, or I panic to find a place to hide. Eagles never come and go alone. They always travel together with two, three or four. You may wonder: why do these eagles always wander around in one place? The reason is very simple! Because they rely on the same airflow, but at different heights. Not far from these eagles, another group of eagles can be seen. If you take a closer look, you will find small black spots everywhere in the sky; If there is sunshine, the small black spots will become small light spots, just like the dust under a ray of sunshine outside the window. How many falcons are there in the miles of blue sky? There are hundreds of them, right? Each has the ability to take away our poultry in just a few minutes.
Therefore, unless we are extremely angry, we will not shoot eagles. I remember that time, a kitten screamed bitterly under the eagle's claws. Seeing that it was going to disappear in the sky, my mother was so angry that she raised her gun and shot in the air. Naturally, there was no gain, and it was just a waste of bullets.
If daytime is the hunting ground for eagles, then dawn and dusk are the positions of owls. As soon as the sun goes down, we will drive the chickens into the chicken pen, but owls have been waiting on the trees; Besides, owls who sleep late will catch chickens when the chicken pen opens again at the dawn.
Eagles always move in the sun, owls move in the dim light, and cats and wild cats move in the night light.
At this time, the gun can be used. Birds can travel thousands of miles in the sky, but cats are different. They have a nest, a mate, and kittens. Anyway, there is always a cat nest. Once we find out which wild cat chooses to settle down in our mountain, we will kill it. In the night, wild cats will commit crimes in the chicken pen through a crack that is too small on the wall or the barbed wire. They will also mate with our cats to lure these peace loving cats to live in the woods. We firmly believe that our cats are not suitable for that dangerous life. The appearance of wild cats has made these spoiled little things in our family question their identity.
One day, my black cook said that he saw a wild cat in a tree halfway up the mountain. My brother was not at home at that time, so I grabbed a rifle and rushed over. At that time, it was noon, and wild cats generally would not come out for activities. On a not tall tree, the cat lay on a branch and growled at me, staring at me with green eyes. The appearance of wild cats is mostly ugly. The tawny fur is ugly, hard and rough, and has an unpleasant smell. She had apparently just eaten a chicken, and the time of the crime was within 12 hours, because a pile of white feathers and several pieces of meat crumbs that had begun to smell were scattered under the tree. We hate wild cats. When they see us, they raise their paws and purr. They also hate us. This is a wild cat. I shot her, and she fell off the branch with a "thud" and fell at my feet. She twitched in the flying feathers for several times, and then stopped moving. Normally, I immediately grabbed the dirty and smelly cat's tail, picked up the body and threw it into a nearby abandoned well. But I always thought this wild cat was a bit strange, so I bent down to look at her. Her head is not much like that of a wild cat. Although her hair is rough, it is still softer than that of a wild cat. I have to admit that she is not a wild cat, but my cat. We recognized that this ugly body was Minnie, the pet cat that my family suddenly disappeared two years ago. At that time, we thought she was captured by an eagle or an owl. Minnie is half Persian. She is hairy and comfortable to touch. The dead cat in front of me is really her, a chicken thief. Near the tree where I shot her, we found a litter of small wild cats, but these kittens were too wild. They regarded human beings as natural enemies, as evidenced by the bites and scratches on the limbs of me and the servants. There is no way but to wipe them out. To be exact, it was the mother who killed them. Since some family rules were not established until a long time later, this kind of annoying work fell on her.
If you think about it, we have cats all year round, but the nearest veterinarian is also 70 miles away in Salisbury [1]. I remember that no one was willing to treat cats, and the troubles of female cats were even more neglected. If you raise a cat, you will have kittens, and there will be a large number of kittens and more births. So someone must get rid of the kittens that nobody wants. Is it the hand of an African servant or kitchen helper at home? I remember hearing this word often: bulala yena. (Kill it!) No matter at home or on the farm, the injured and sickly livestock and poultry cannot escape this fate: bulala yena!
However, my family has a shotgun and a revolver, which are usually used by my mother.
For example, she usually handles snakes. It is common for snakes to come and go at home, and we are living with snakes. It is terrible to say so, but it is a fact. Compared with snakes, I am more afraid of spiders - those spiders with large bodies, strange shapes and large quantities are nightmares. Our common snakes are cobra, black mamba, puff adder and night adder. There is also a very hateful snake, called African tree snake. This kind of poisonous snake likes to coil around branches or colonnades and other places far away from the ground. It sprays venom on the face of those who disturb it. They usually stay parallel to human sight, so people are often blind by this snake poison. But in the 20 years of living with snakes, this tragedy only happened once: a tree snake sprayed venom into my brother's eyes. Fortunately, an African saved his eyesight with herbs.
However, the alarm bell often rings: there are snakes in the kitchen, on the balcony, and in the restaurant; Snakes seem to be everywhere. Once, I almost picked up a night viper as a piece of wool. Fortunately, he was first startled by me and hissed, saving our lives: I was scared to flee, and he also took the opportunity to escape. My desk is piled with white paper. There are many gaps between the paper piles. Once, a snake unexpectedly slipped into a paper seam. In order to kill it, mother and servant spent several hours to scare it out. Another time, a mamba snake broke into the bottom of the grain box in the storage room, and her mother had no choice but to lie on the ground and shoot the nearby mamba snake.
I remember once, a snake that got into the firewood pile made the family panic. I told my family that I seemed to see the snake darting into two logs. This sentence ended the life of one of my favorite cats, because what I saw was actually her tail. Mother fired a shot at a moving grey shadow, and then there was a shrill scream. The cat's stomach was broken into a big hole, and it was bloody. She struggled and rolled in the wood pile, whining incessantly. Under the broken ribs, a small heart with continuous blood flow emerged. Mother stroked her while crying, and she finally died. As the culprit, the cobra was coiled on a piece of wood a few feet away, safe and sound.
Another time, there was a sudden uproar at home, and everyone was frightened. It turned out that on a stony path full of hibiscus and thorns, a cat was fighting a dancing small black snake. The snake ducked into a three foot wide thorn bush, hid in it, and stared at the cat who could not get close to the thorn bush with bright eyes. The cat kept watch all afternoon, circling around the thorn bush where the snake hid, showing its teeth and growling at its opponent, but when night fell, the little snake took advantage of the night to escape.
Many stories flash in memory endlessly. I remember once there was a cat whose eyes were swollen by snake venom. It was lying on its mother's bed, meowing and wailing. What happened then? Then there was the cat, whose belly hung down to the ground because of milk, and went into the house with a wail all the way. What happened to her later? We went to the tool shed to see her litter of kittens lying in the old box, but found that they were all gone. The servant looked at the traces on the dust around the box and said, "Nyoka." It was a snake.
When I was young, I accepted people, animals and things as I met them. When they disappeared, they disappeared. No one told me the reason, and I would not open my mouth to ask.
But now when I think of cats, there are always cats. When I think of all the things related to cats and the years with cats, I cannot help but be shocked by the heavy work that cats bring. Now I only have two cats in London, and they often talk about it. If someone dares to say how much trouble it can be to raise two small animals and how much care he can take, he must be standing and talking without backache.
In those years, all the work related to cats was the mother's business. It is natural for men to do farm work outside the home and women to do housework inside. Even if the housework in the countryside is thousands of times more complicated than that in the city, she has to take over. Because in terms of temperament, those jobs belong to her. Mother is kind-hearted and reasonable, good at running a family, especially pragmatic, rarely emotional. Not only that, she is also the kind of woman who knows how to do things and is willing to do it herself. In short, she is a powerful role.
My father knew those things clearly in his heart. After all, he was from the countryside, but his attitude did not approve. Whenever something has to be solved, countermeasures must be taken, and the last resort must be taken - while the executor is always the mother, the father said, "So it's decided! Whatever you want!" His tone was sour, somewhat dissatisfied, but not without admiration. But in the end, he would always admit to being soft: "Nature, if we can all behave ourselves, it would be good."
For a mother, she should try her best to be at peace with nature. It is true that this is both her responsibility and her heartache, but she never wastes time on sentimental issues. "You're all right, aren't you?" She answered humorously. In fact, she was annoyed with her father, so her mother's humor was slightly resentful, because her father did not care about such things as drowning kittens, shooting snakes, killing sick poultry, or fumigating termite nests with sulfur yellow. On the contrary, he also liked termites. He often watched them busy, and was fascinated at a glance.
So I couldn't understand why, on that terrible weekend, my mother would leave me behind and leave me with my father, so that we could stay at home with more than 40 cats.
After thinking about it, I had only one explanation for her behavior: "She is too soft hearted, and even a kitten would not like to drown."
It was me who said this. I was on fire at that time, and my voice was very impatient and aggressive. At that time, I was engaged in a "war" with my mother, a life and death struggle, or a survival battle. I don't know whether my mother's leaving home is related to our war. Now I can't help wondering: what is the reason why mother suddenly lost her courage? Or is she trying to protest against something? What kind of pain does her heart suffer? When she suddenly said that she would never come to her again about drowning kittens and killing sick cats, what was her real intention? Finally, she clearly knew that it was true that cats had become ill in our family, and she knew what would happen next. Why did she still leave us alone?
Since my mother refused to act as the supervisor and arbitrator, and no longer participated in maintaining the balance between rational reproduction and irrational proliferation in nature, less than a year later, all the bushes in my house, around the warehouse and around the farm were full of cats. Kittens, old cats, half size cats; Domestic cats, wild cats, semi tame and semi wild cats; Cats suffering from scabies, injured cats with swollen eyes, disabled cats with lame legs, all kinds of cats are available. To make matters worse, there were six pregnant female cats. From this point of view, if we don't take measures quickly, our family will inevitably become a battleground for hundreds of cats in a few weeks.
It's time to take action. My father said so, I said so, and the servants said so, but my mother tightened her lips and left the house without saying a word. Before she left home, she said goodbye to her favorite cat. That is a very old tabby cat. My cats are all her descendants. Mother gently stroked the cat's head while crying. I still remember what I thought at that time. I felt that my mother was asking for trouble and didn't understand that she was crying because she was helpless.
When my mother left the house, my father said several times, "So it's time to do it, isn't it?" Yes, it's time to do it. So my father called the veterinarian in the city. This is not a simple matter. Our family shares a telephone line with 20 other farmers. We have to wait until others have finished gossiping or heard about the farm. Then we call the telephone office and apply for a line to talk to the city. When there is a line available, they will call you. This may be an hour or even two. Sitting aside and waiting, looking at the cats, hoping that such a dirty thing could be quickly ended, such waiting is simply torture. My father and I sat side by side at the dining room table, waiting for the phone to ring. Finally, we finally contacted the veterinarian, but the veterinarian said that the most humane way to let adult cats die is to use chloroform. The nearest drugstore is in Sinoia, 20 miles away [2]. So we drove to Sinoia, but the pharmacy was closed that week. We called Salisbury from Sinoah, and asked a pharmacist there to take a large bottle of chloroform by train the next day. He promised to help. It doesn't rain at ordinary times. We always stay in front of the house to enjoy the cool at night. That night, we sat under the starry sky in front of the house, feeling sad, angry and guilty. In order to get through this torture as soon as possible, we went to bed early. The next day was Saturday. We drove to the station, but there was no chloroform on the train. On Sunday, a female cat gave birth to six kittens, but none of them were healthy. Each of them had some problems. Father said that this is the result of inbreeding. In this way, it is unimaginable that several healthy cats can become a disabled cat army in less than a year. The servant disposed of the newborn kittens, and we had another painful day. On Monday, we drove to the railway station, waited for the train to take our goods, and returned home with chloroform. Mother is scheduled to go home this evening. We took a sealed big cake can, put a cotton ball soaked with chloroform into it, and then put a poor sick old cat in it. I don't recommend this way. The veterinarian said that this method could achieve immediate results, but the fact was not as he said.
Finally, we drove all the cats into a room. Father came into the room with his revolver used in the First World War and said that pistols were better than shotguns. The shots rang out one after another. Those cats that have not yet been caught, sensing their fate, run around in the bushes screaming to avoid being hunted by people. My father came out of the room once. He looked pale, his lips were closed, his eyes were moist, and he looked uncomfortable. He scolded in a gibberish for a long time, then entered the room again, and then the gunshot rang again. At last he walked out of the room. The servant went in, carried the cat corpse out and threw it into the waste well.
However, there were still several cats that escaped the disaster. There were three cats in total. They never returned to this dangerous house, and they must finally become wild cats. The mother returned home. After the neighbor who picked her up left, she walked through the house with only one cat left. Her beloved old cat was sleeping in her bed. Mother didn't ask us to let her go, because she was old and in poor health. But when my mother came home, she was looking for her. She sat beside her for a long time, stroking her while talking to her. Then she went to the balcony. My father and I were sitting there, feeling like murderers. Mother sat down. Father was rolling a cigarette, his hands still trembling. He looked up at his mother and said, "Never let this happen again."
I think such a thing will never happen in the future.
The cat slaughter made me very angry, because it could have been avoided, but in my memory, I did not feel sad about it. When I was eleven years old, the death of a cat broke my heart. From then on, I hardened my heart and stopped feeling sorry for cats. At that time, looking at the cold and heavy body, I couldn't believe that she was the light and feathery kitten yesterday. I told myself: I will never suffer this pain again. But I know in my heart that I have made such vows. My parents told me that when I was three years old, I went out for a walk with my nanny in Tehran. I ignored the nanny's objection and picked up a starving kitten on the street and carried her home. They said that I kept shouting that she was my kitten. At the beginning, my family firmly refused to adopt, but I would never give up because I was so obsessed with them for the sake of kittens. The kitten was very dirty. Her family used potassium permanganate to bathe and disinfect her. Since then, she has slept with me. I don't allow others to take her away, but she must leave me, because soon our family will move away from Persia, so we can only leave her behind. Or maybe she died, maybe - how do I know? Anyway, in the distant past, a little girl won a cat for herself day and night, but the little girl finally lost her.
After a certain age - for some people, it may be at a very young age - there will be no new people, new animals, new dreams, new faces and new things in life, because everything has happened. All the characters have appeared before, just wearing different masks, wearing different clothes, having different nationalities and skin colors, In fact, they are the same, the same, all echoes and repetition of the past; Even all the sadness is the reappearance of the sad past sealed in memory long ago. Take me for example. The grief that tore my heart and lungs, the days that washed my face with tears, the loneliness deeply rooted in my bones, and the despair of betrayal in my memory are all related to a thin, small, dying cat.
That winter, I got sick. At that time, my big room was ready to be repainted. It was not convenient for people to live in, so I moved to the nearest cabin to live. Our house is close to but not on the top of the mountain, but on the side ramp, so it feels like it will slide into the corn field at the foot of the mountain at any time. My room is very small, but there are doors and windows, which are open all the year round. In July, the sky was as clear as blue, and the cold wind was blowing, but my house was still open. The sky is sunny and the fields are sunny, but the weather is very cold. The blue gray Persian cat crept onto my bed and stayed there to share my pain, food, pillow and dreams. When I wake up in the morning, my cheek is stuck to the ice like linen sheet, and the outside of the blanket is extremely cold. The wall paint from the next room smells cold, mixed with a smell of disinfectant; The cold wind outside is piercing, and the dust is light. But in my arms, there is always a warm, softly purring little guy, my cat, my friend.
At the back of the house, on the ground outside the bathroom, there was a big wooden bucket buried to receive the bath water. There is no tap water equipment in our farm. When we need water, we have to drive a bullock cart to a well several miles away to collect water. In the months long dry season, we can only use dirty bath water to water the flowers. On a cold and windy day, my cat accidentally fell into a bucket full of hot water, screamed in horror, and was picked up by us. The bucket was very dirty. In addition to fallen leaves, dust, and soapy water, we washed her with potassium permanganate, dried it and put it in my quilt for warmth. She kept sneezing and panting, and then she had a high fever. She has pneumonia. We treated her with all the drugs available at home, but there were no antibiotics at that time, so she left me. She lay in my arms for a week, struggling to purr with a trembling, hoarse voice, but her voice became weaker and weaker day by day, and finally disappeared. She licked my hand; When I heard her name called out loudly and begged her to live, she opened her big green eyes, then closed them forever, and was thrown into the dry well a hundred feet deep. A year ago, the underground water here suddenly changed its way, making the well on which our family depended become a dry, cracked, stone covered pit, which soon accumulated a lot of garbage, cans and animal carcasses.
This is how it happened. This tragedy cannot be allowed to happen again. For many years, I have always compared the cats in my friends' houses, shops, farms, streets, walls, and memories with the gentle, bluish grey creature. She is the only cat in my mind, and no cat can replace her position in my heart.
In addition, there was a period of time when there was no unnecessary decoration in my life. Cats can't find shelter in a person who is always wandering around and constantly moving. For a cat, he needs not only a person of his own, but also a place of his own.
After 25 years of wandering around, I got the condition to keep a cat.
notes
[1] Salisbury, the capital of Zimbabwe, is now called Harare.
[2] Sinoia, a place name in Zimbabwe, is located in the northwest of the capital Harare (formerly Salisbury).
