Here kitty, kitty …

VIEWPOINT

By RALPH HARDIN

Evening Times Editor

Over the course of my life, I can think of at least halfa- dozen times that I found myself in the proximity of a stray cat that needed a home. In fact, there’s a little yellow cat at my feet as I type this from my home office that had nowhere to call home but had to be very strongly convinced that I had a pretty sweet deal for her if she would just come with me.

She eventually came to agree with me.

So, the other day, my daughter and I had to make a late-evening run to the West Memphis Walmart so she could pick up a “Dirty Santa” gift for some Christmas party the next day that she totally forgot to get any of the dozen or so times she was in West Memphis recently.

Anyway, as we were walking through the parking lot, something caught her eye.

“That was a cat!” she exclaimed. I, of course, was immediately intrigued. We crouched down, looking under the cars for the kitty but there was no cat to be found. She said is was little. “Not a kitten, but small, and grey” was how she described it. Well, it was cold and getting late, so we abandoned our brief search. I wasn’t too worried about it. Cats are pretty resilient and for all we knew, he was perfectly content to be a Walmart parking lot cat, living off of whatever folks discarded from their vehicles or maybe ransacking the dumpsters out back. We got whatever it was she eventually got for her exchange gift and we went home.

Fast-forward to last night, and this time it was my wife who needed to go to Walmart (funny how I keep getting roped into these tag-along situations. But like someone mentioned in Text the Times today, there are always dangers lurking for women alone in dark parking lots, and while I might not be Captain America or anything, maybe my presence alone could ward off any would-be evildoers). She needed stuff for the Christmas potluck at work the next day and I needed a couple of things. So, we were tag-teaming our shopping list when my cell phone buzzed.

“Hey,” my wife said, weirdly almost whispering. “Come to the make-up.” If you’re familiar with the layout of the West Memphis Walmart, you know the make-up is in the northeast corner of the store right next to the seasonal stuff, which is currently a Christmas wonderland.

As I approached, I saw her, almost hiding around the corner from something. I thought for a minute she was looking at the lifesize Santa Claus figure in the entry to the Christmas section, like maybe she thought it was a real person and it was creeping her out? But no.

“Look over there,” she said. “I spooked it but it’s still there.” My eyes aren’t what they used to be, but I saw … something grey on the ground by the Santa statue. “Is it a turtle?” I asked, drawing a scoff from my wife. “An armadillo?”

But no, upon closer inspection it was a cat. Not a kitten, but small … and grey. I was certain this was the cat my daughter had seen. It was standoffish but not really freaking out or anything, like it was curious and cautious but not scared. I, of course, was making plans to take it home.

There was only one problem (well, two problems, as my wife almost definitely did not want to add another cat to our collection of two cats, a dog, five chickens, a pair of hermit crabs and several fish). He wouldn’t quite let me touch him. I knelt down so as to make myself small and gave him my best “Pss, pss, pss, pss” but he stayed about two feet away, retreating a little further when some other shopper passed by.

I even got a couple of those shoppers to join in the effort. Eventually, he got into the Christmas tree display, which gave him a pretty effective “forest” to take cover in. He’d venture to the edge, getting again a couple of feet away from me or this nice young lady who was almost as committed as I was to rescue him from the hard-knock life of a retail refugee.

Finally, I got close enough to make my move and I took it. I reached forward, quickly but not violently. I was wearing my thick Arkansas Razorbacks hoodie for pretty decent protection and was prepared to take a few claws if it meant getting him into custody.

Sadly, I only got a few hairs and he bolted retreating through the doors that lead to the gardening section (which is currently mostly toy overflow). I don’t know where he went from there. It was time to go home (sadly with no new kitty-cat). It’s probably for the best. A feral cat like that might be a little too interested in my wife’s chickens, and we don’t want any massacres here right before Christmas.

But if you see Wally (yes, I already had a name for him) tell him I said hello and give him a “Pss, pss, pss” for me!