‘The cat came back’: 

Conservation and care for the environment are important issues to promote and practice these days.  The youth of today are much better educated than we were in this regard and are very aware of modern day issues such as salinity, water management, protecting and creating habitat for our native animals.  My uncle, Ballie, was a pioneer in this regard and his farm is now a showcase of farming techniques that promotes little erosion, better pastures and less work in the long run.  In fact visitors are greeted at the front gate with the sign – “Land for wildlife”.  This is a scheme promoted by the Victorian Government where the owner is encouraged to put in place conservation strategies according to a set of criteria to receive grants.  Typically, it involves the fencing of dams, establishing native tree corridors and ridding the farm of feral animals.  The results can be quite spectacular with ducks on dams, fish in the water, warm paddocks with the establishment of tree breaks and of course the return of native birds and animals.  It is also possible to correct the pH level of the soil and cut back the heavy use of such fertilizers as superphosphate.

Feral cats became quite a problem on the farm in the 60’s. The situation was not helped because Grandpa felt sorry for them and used to feed them full cream cow’s milk.  We could hear him outside in the early morning calling out in a hoarse voice – “Kitty, kitty, kitty”.  Cats seemed to come from everywhere and they were certainly healthy specimens with huge fluffy tails and contentment was written all over their faces.  Jack, my other uncle was never one for cats.  They made him sneeze and he reckoned the “only good cat was a flat cat”.  He was referring to the rare sight of a road kill when passing cars momentarily disturbed the hair rising from the bitumen.  The situation was getting out of hand at this time, so Ballie decided to take a stand.  He hatched a devious plan to get rid of the freeloaders and of course for a kid like me this was enormously exciting and fun.

Grandpa used to do some work in the mid-morning and this was the perfect opportunity to put our plan into action.  We placed a large dish of milk outside the door and called “kitty, kitty, kitty”.  But feral cats are smart and they knew we were up to no good.  It was only when we returned back inside that they eagerly came and slurped the ‘beautiful’ milk.  But we were not to be outsmarted.  Everyday we placed the bait a little closer to the wash house which was located separate from the house and adjacent to the water tank.  Finally, the day came.  I nervously placed a huge plate of milk inside the wash house and then hid behind it expectantly on the other side.  Understandably, the cats were wary and it was only after one brave individual made the plunge that the others followed being jealous of his greedy guts.

I crept forward step by step until I reached my goal and then I lunged for the door and in the same moment pulled it securely shut.  There was certainly a commotion inside now and pandemonium broke out when the farm dogs came from everywhere wanting a piece of the action.  They were barking uncontrollably and scratching at the base of the door.  They seemed to sense our dislike of feral cats also and wanted to shortcut our plan.  Ballie then gleefully appeared with a large potatoe bag under his arm and we prepared for stage 2 of the operation.  Somehow we got rid of the dogs momentarily and we able to get inside the wash house.  I can tell you my heart was going ten to the dozen as Ballie gave me the potatoe bag and said “now hold it open”.  Cats were going in all directions in feverish confusion.  I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to catch a feral cat with your bare hands but it is not a pretty sight.  Ballie was already sporting blood and scratches as he tried to put the first cat in the bag.  The expletives were flying because the cat had lodged its claws in the side of the bag and no amount of pushing seemed to dislodge it.  Finally, we got the first cat inside but when I opened the bag for the second one, the first one jumped out. By this stage I was laughing so much I could hardly hold the bag.  Ballie was getting frantic and loosing all sense of judgment as he reached into the air for flying cats.  Somehow we finally got them all in the bag and there must have been about 8.  Ballie was cut to ribbons and looked like he needed urgent medical attention.  We put a string around the neck of the bag and negotiated the next obstacle.  The dogs burst in and were jumping up trying to grab the bag from us.  But we held it high out of harms way and headed for the old, trusty, yellow  37 Chev.  We opened the boot and placed the cats securely inside.

In hindsight, we then made a very unwise decision.  We didn’t have the heart to kill the poor blighters so we drove 15 miles away and let them go at the Wannon River.  When we opened the bag, cats went in all directions.  We then returned home and tried to gather our composure before Grandpa appeared.  Ballie doctored himself, covering up his war wounds as best he could and hiding any evidence that suggested we had been up to anything untoward. 

The next day, Grandpa went out and did his usual routines.  He placed the milk down and called – “kitty, kitty, kitty” but there was no response.  Puzzled, he came inside and asked us if we had seen the cats and of course we lied through our back teeth. “Nope, we haven’t seen them”.  Well, I think it must have been about 2 weeks later and we were all sitting at the wood heap relaxing under the pine trees when we noticed a lone pussy cat staggering through the front gate.  It's pretty amazing that they have a built in homing device that seems to work no matter what actions you take.  It forlornly made its way down the drive way and stopped in front of Ballie and me.  It was very dishevelled and its tail was hanging like a limp rope.  It looked up at both of us and it seemed to say.  “You’re the miserable bastards that caused this!”  I couldn’t look at the sorry sight any more and as I turned my face away it walked over to Grandpa.  Fortunately, he didn’t recognize it and he went off to get some milk.  But sad to say it died a few days later and it was really a blessing in disguise because we never had a feral cat problem as bad again and I was reminded of the nursery rhyme song.  “The cat came back the very next day, the old cat came back!”