I was standing at the large expanse of the sliding glass
door looking out into our backyard. Beyond our chain link fence was a strip of
wilderness—the back trails—about twenty feet across that ran east to west for a
couple of miles through the north side of our New Mexico town, altitude 6500,
population, 7000. Movement to my right caught my eye. It was Ditto, our cat. On
a dead run, a coyote on her heels. The two of them disappeared into the arroyo
that flanked the path. I froze.
Out of Idgy’s first and last litter, the kitten we decided
to keep was her spitting image right down to gender: the white spot on her
nose, the white tipped ears, and the gray and white stripes that flowed into
her all white underside. Spitting, the proposed name for our little longhair,
was not acceptable, nor was Spit. As the self-appointed name giver, I had the
last say.
I chose Ditto.
Once Ditto revealed her character, I might have chosen
other apt names: Shrewd, Demanding, Persistence, Impatience, Sly, Clever, Sneak,
Manipulator. She owned the entire family.
In the wee hours, when hunger struck her, she would stand over
John, my sleeping husband, batting his forelock deftly without scratching his
head. When she learned that such close proximity meant that he could grab her,
she resorted to scratching at the carpet on his side of the bed. Not wanting to
disturb his night’s rest, John blindly threw pillows at her until she left the
room. But Ditto caught on to that maneuver soon enough and began scratching at
the carpet where the pillow couldn't reach her so easily. At first she crawled
under the bed. In the dark it took John a while to discover why the pillow
wasn't connecting, but once he was on to her, her place of refuge was no longer
out of reach. New Plan. From the foot of the bed, Ditto could scratch with
impunity safe from flying objects hurled blindly her way. John tried closing
the bedroom door to keep her out but to no avail. She simply scratched
annoyingly at the door.
Growling and hissing in cat language, John finally leaves
his warm bed and rewards the triumphant Ditto. Feline payoff. It was a
nocturnal feeding ritual that would not end save she fall victim to Coyote Run.
Nights, from the back trails, we were serenaded en masse with
the frantic coyote yelps of hot pursuit of prey or the assertive claim to
territory. It was not uncommon to find a canis latrans texensis in our yard, or
to see them during early morning exercise. I would tense up if I thought a dog,
half hidden by juniper, was racing toward my path. Discovering it was a coyote
I relaxed knowing full well he would instantly disappear into the camouflage of
flora. But then I was not on the menu. Cats, on the other hand were appetizers,
main entrees, and dessert. Typically, they did not last long in our town.
But Ditto defied the averages.
She suddenly topped the other side of the arroyo and true
to her character made a valiant leap at the last moment for a wild olive tree,
scampering to safety.
