California Sunshine
03-28-2004, 01:11 AM
I found this on a website and thought it was so sweet and touching I had to share,it made me cry me fool head off!
Momma Cat
also known as:
Paw Prints on my Heart
by John W. Webster
I suppose Momma Cat wasn't a very original name for a cat, but she was the mother of most of the cats that roamed the main yard in Clinton Correctional Facility, so it was appropriate if not inventive. Momma Cat was a black and white calico who was born sometimes in 1985 according to the old time prisoners. While her birth may be obscured in time, Momma Cat's life is legendary.
In her earlier years, Momma Cat was just another one of the dozens of cats who lived in the main yard. Most likely the prisoners of past cared for her and some probably even called her by different names over the years. However, as time passed, and Momma Cat was recognized as being the mother of litter after litter of kittens, she became known as the Momma Cat. Her independent spirit and steadfast refusal to seek indoor shelter during the winter months gave her a survivor aura and earned her the respect of the prisoners who understand the hardships associated with harsh conditions.
Like most cats, Momma Cat was possessive of her territory which she staked out like a California gold miner. The other cats avoided any court where Momma Cat was hanging out under penalty of a quick paw or two. The main yard at Clinton C.F. resembles a shanty town with several hundred small areas divided into "courts" where prisoners can relax and cook meals over a small fire in a drum. While there were many prisoners who fed Momma Cat regularly, it was she who decided which court she made home and the individual she choose as her caretaker. I had this honor for a brief period of her life.
On a windy Saturday morning in September of 2000, I was on my court cooking pancakes and sausages when Momma Cat approached me. By this time she was about 15 years old and beyond her mouse chasing days, which I would later learn she felt was lacking in personality having become accustomed to being hand fed by the prisoners.
Anyhow, she made her desire clear by pouncing around my feet while I stood at the fire urging me with quick meows. Of course, I gave her a few pieces of the sausage and continued cooking my breakfast thinking that she would move along. I finished preparing the meal and sat down at the table only to find that Momma Cat had made a bed of my coat on the table. That morning, I had pancakes and Momma Cat enjoyed the sausage. I had been chosen.
The following day, which was a Sunday and by luck the roast beef day of the month, I saved my ration and brought it to the yard where I found Momma Cat anxiously perched on the table of my court. As I sat down, she quickly jumped into my lap with the unmistakable message to hurry up with the food. As I began feeding her the roast beef, I noticed that she had an irregular bite as the result of what I assumed was a old injury to her jaw. I had to break the meat into small pieces for her. She appreciated my efforts and rewarded me with some loud purring and nuzzling while she sat on my lap.
A routine of sorts emerged where each evening after work I would find Momma Cat waiting for me in the yard. Sometimes she would meet me at the door and lead me to the court if she was especially hungry. Most times I would just find her waiting for me on the court. I usually fed her tuna fish, mackerel, or salmon which I got from the commissary. If some appropriate meat was being served in the messhall, I would often save it for Momma Cat. I discovered that sausage was her favorite. On many occasions, other prisoners would stop by the court with food for Momma Cat, which she ate graciously, but without affection. After eating Momma Cat would lay in my lap and purr away as I pet her. She really enjoyed being rubbed on the head between her ears.
I soon learned that Momma Cat could be a bit finicky and expected me to take my duties seriously. If I didn't visit the court immediately upon entering the yard, Momma Cat would come searching for me. It didn't matter if I was making a telephone call or working out on the weight pile, she would demand her due with persistent meowing and guilty glares. I soon realized that Momma Cat would have to come first, but didn't really mind since I had grown attached to her.
Although Momma Cat had a gentle disposition for the most part, she wasn't beyond sharp hissing and a warning bat of her paw if someone picked her up without invitation or otherwise scared her. While I had no problem with holding her, I did feel her wrath one day. She had a habit of "softening up" my lap by innocently digging with her claws which were extremely long and sharp. So I decided that a trimming was in order and brought a pair of nail clippers to the yard one day. I doubt she ever had her nails clipped because on the first attempt I earned a smart pawing.
After some coaxing, I was able to trim her nails and think that she appreciated her newly designed wheels. I sure did.
With the winter months approaching, I realized that Momma Cat would need some shelter from the traditionally brutal cold of Northern New York. I cleaned out a small wooden cabinet on my court and hung part of a wool blanket over the front to protect her from the wind and allow access. I put the remaining portion of the blanket on the top shelf of the cabinet for her bed. It was very cozy and Momma Cat quickly made it home. On especially cold nights, I would put the hot coals from the fire in a metal can and position it on the bottom shelf of the cabinet in a manner to provide warmth, but not such as to create a fire hazard. For sure, Momma Cat was the only cat in the prison yard with a heated shelter. Yes, she was special.
As the months past, Momma Cat and I developed a good relationship. I cared for her while she listened to me when my heart was heavy from missing my wife and family. I don't know why Momma Cat chose me as her guardian, but her dependence taught me that the simple things in life are often the most important. I found joy in watching her eat with relish and laying about my lap purring and peeking at me with wise eyes. I felt needed and with purpose, a feeling that is generally lacking in a prison environment.
In the early part of 2001, I was transferred from Clinton C.F. and I'm sure Momma Cat made arrangements for a new guardian. Later, in the summer of 2002, I learned from another prisoner that Momma Cat had died of natural causes in November of 2001. It was simply her time. Despite the fact that she had never received any sort of professional health care, she live a long, healthy and happy life. Momma Cat was buried in the main yard where she roamed for so many years by the prisoners who gave her a burial befitting her status. Perhaps a prison yard is not the ideal environment for a .cat, but Momma Cat didn't care. She had hundreds, if not thousands, of guys who loved her over the years and I just wanted to say thanks Momma Cat for letting me be one.
Momma Cat
also known as:
Paw Prints on my Heart
by John W. Webster
I suppose Momma Cat wasn't a very original name for a cat, but she was the mother of most of the cats that roamed the main yard in Clinton Correctional Facility, so it was appropriate if not inventive. Momma Cat was a black and white calico who was born sometimes in 1985 according to the old time prisoners. While her birth may be obscured in time, Momma Cat's life is legendary.
In her earlier years, Momma Cat was just another one of the dozens of cats who lived in the main yard. Most likely the prisoners of past cared for her and some probably even called her by different names over the years. However, as time passed, and Momma Cat was recognized as being the mother of litter after litter of kittens, she became known as the Momma Cat. Her independent spirit and steadfast refusal to seek indoor shelter during the winter months gave her a survivor aura and earned her the respect of the prisoners who understand the hardships associated with harsh conditions.
Like most cats, Momma Cat was possessive of her territory which she staked out like a California gold miner. The other cats avoided any court where Momma Cat was hanging out under penalty of a quick paw or two. The main yard at Clinton C.F. resembles a shanty town with several hundred small areas divided into "courts" where prisoners can relax and cook meals over a small fire in a drum. While there were many prisoners who fed Momma Cat regularly, it was she who decided which court she made home and the individual she choose as her caretaker. I had this honor for a brief period of her life.
On a windy Saturday morning in September of 2000, I was on my court cooking pancakes and sausages when Momma Cat approached me. By this time she was about 15 years old and beyond her mouse chasing days, which I would later learn she felt was lacking in personality having become accustomed to being hand fed by the prisoners.
Anyhow, she made her desire clear by pouncing around my feet while I stood at the fire urging me with quick meows. Of course, I gave her a few pieces of the sausage and continued cooking my breakfast thinking that she would move along. I finished preparing the meal and sat down at the table only to find that Momma Cat had made a bed of my coat on the table. That morning, I had pancakes and Momma Cat enjoyed the sausage. I had been chosen.
The following day, which was a Sunday and by luck the roast beef day of the month, I saved my ration and brought it to the yard where I found Momma Cat anxiously perched on the table of my court. As I sat down, she quickly jumped into my lap with the unmistakable message to hurry up with the food. As I began feeding her the roast beef, I noticed that she had an irregular bite as the result of what I assumed was a old injury to her jaw. I had to break the meat into small pieces for her. She appreciated my efforts and rewarded me with some loud purring and nuzzling while she sat on my lap.
A routine of sorts emerged where each evening after work I would find Momma Cat waiting for me in the yard. Sometimes she would meet me at the door and lead me to the court if she was especially hungry. Most times I would just find her waiting for me on the court. I usually fed her tuna fish, mackerel, or salmon which I got from the commissary. If some appropriate meat was being served in the messhall, I would often save it for Momma Cat. I discovered that sausage was her favorite. On many occasions, other prisoners would stop by the court with food for Momma Cat, which she ate graciously, but without affection. After eating Momma Cat would lay in my lap and purr away as I pet her. She really enjoyed being rubbed on the head between her ears.
I soon learned that Momma Cat could be a bit finicky and expected me to take my duties seriously. If I didn't visit the court immediately upon entering the yard, Momma Cat would come searching for me. It didn't matter if I was making a telephone call or working out on the weight pile, she would demand her due with persistent meowing and guilty glares. I soon realized that Momma Cat would have to come first, but didn't really mind since I had grown attached to her.
Although Momma Cat had a gentle disposition for the most part, she wasn't beyond sharp hissing and a warning bat of her paw if someone picked her up without invitation or otherwise scared her. While I had no problem with holding her, I did feel her wrath one day. She had a habit of "softening up" my lap by innocently digging with her claws which were extremely long and sharp. So I decided that a trimming was in order and brought a pair of nail clippers to the yard one day. I doubt she ever had her nails clipped because on the first attempt I earned a smart pawing.
After some coaxing, I was able to trim her nails and think that she appreciated her newly designed wheels. I sure did.
With the winter months approaching, I realized that Momma Cat would need some shelter from the traditionally brutal cold of Northern New York. I cleaned out a small wooden cabinet on my court and hung part of a wool blanket over the front to protect her from the wind and allow access. I put the remaining portion of the blanket on the top shelf of the cabinet for her bed. It was very cozy and Momma Cat quickly made it home. On especially cold nights, I would put the hot coals from the fire in a metal can and position it on the bottom shelf of the cabinet in a manner to provide warmth, but not such as to create a fire hazard. For sure, Momma Cat was the only cat in the prison yard with a heated shelter. Yes, she was special.
As the months past, Momma Cat and I developed a good relationship. I cared for her while she listened to me when my heart was heavy from missing my wife and family. I don't know why Momma Cat chose me as her guardian, but her dependence taught me that the simple things in life are often the most important. I found joy in watching her eat with relish and laying about my lap purring and peeking at me with wise eyes. I felt needed and with purpose, a feeling that is generally lacking in a prison environment.
In the early part of 2001, I was transferred from Clinton C.F. and I'm sure Momma Cat made arrangements for a new guardian. Later, in the summer of 2002, I learned from another prisoner that Momma Cat had died of natural causes in November of 2001. It was simply her time. Despite the fact that she had never received any sort of professional health care, she live a long, healthy and happy life. Momma Cat was buried in the main yard where she roamed for so many years by the prisoners who gave her a burial befitting her status. Perhaps a prison yard is not the ideal environment for a .cat, but Momma Cat didn't care. She had hundreds, if not thousands, of guys who loved her over the years and I just wanted to say thanks Momma Cat for letting me be one.