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| The Cabin |
The snow fell heavily. Each flake, saturated and wet, made a distinctive rustle as it landed atop the storm's accumulation. A brisk wind tugged at the naked cottonwoods and the slumbering spruce. Periodic gusts pushed at reluctant branches, causing them to drop their catches of wet, heavy snow. The storm filled walk-ways, blocked the trail, and forced the children to play inside.
A small spruce log cabin trembled at the edge of a clearing, defying the storm and the Alaskan wilderness. A warm, inviting glow beckoned from the cabin's lone window. Smoke curled out of a river‑rock chimney. Its gray swirls were torn away by the wind and disappeared in the wet darkness. Colored lights framed the cabin's doorway and draped the spruce trees in the yard. Red, green, blue, and orange, they gaily twinkled their holiday message, making rainbow reflections on the fallen snow. Between the gusts of that late‑December williwaw, the muted sounds of Christmas music and laughter escaped the envelope of the cabin's protective walls.
Inside, it was warm, dry, bright, and friendly; the comfort and safety of the sturdy little cabin was accentuated by the sights and sounds of Christmas joy. Outside, amid the lashing, wet storm, it was dark and cold.
Beyond the Christmas kaleidoscope, within the near shadows, a small kitten dragged an awful burden through the wet snow. The tortoise-shell‑colored feline, fur matted and wet, one ear shredded and ugly, struggled toward the invitations of the log cabin. Each step was an agony of effort. Every inch traveled was won with pain. The back trail was punctuated by the tell-tale bloodstains of wounds unhealed.
The kitten stopped beneath the boughs of a sheltering spruce tree. It shivered and mewed. It whimpered briefly as it tried to lift the forepaw that was mangled in the jaws of the number three, double spring, jump trap. The trap was too heavy. The little kitten frantically shook its foot, a desperate attempt to gain freedom. Another toe dropped away, and the pitiful creature cried out. The trap remained attached, still clamped to one toe.
After resting a moment, the kitten continued her struggle to reach the cabin. She leaned away from the trap, inching forward, then pulled the trap after her through the soaking, unyielding snow. Her eyes were half closed against the force of the wind-driven slush. Her inchworm progress was painful and slow, but she soon made it to the brightly colored yard. The rainbows of Christmas joy danced around this piteous creature. The kitten's despair was not eased by the colorful promises of Christmas happiness.
Inside the cozy cabin, the beacon that had guided the kitten's way, the singing stopped. The yard lights winked out. Now there was only the warm, yellow light of the window, spotlighting a small area in front of the doorway.
A huge Malamute husky pushed through a dogie door that was mounted at the base of the lighted cabin doorway. He pranced into the yard, unbothered by the slashing snow, and lifted his leg against the withered stalks of cow parsnip which poked their way through the snow cover. Relieved, the black and white canine, close relative of the gray wolf, took a turn around the yard, nose to the ground. Without fear or noise, he sniffed his way right up to the kitten.
The kitten recoiled with concern. She tried to make herself smaller. She did not hiss or spit. She simply huddled next to the trap, one ear pulled back, the other torn and useless.
The Malamute tested the air near the kitten. He gently touched her head with his nose and took in a deep breath. He exhaled and the kitten recoiled a bit more. The Malamute gently nuzzled the kitten and she cried out in pain. He jumped back, curious and startled.
He sat and cocked his head, first to one side, then to the other. At last, having apparently come to a decision, he lifted his head to the stormy night and began a mournful dog song. Soon, his canine croon was answered by a distant neighbor. They briefly harmonized as their ancient song told the kitten's tale. The wind tore at the sounds, blending, deadening, and attenuating them.
The cabin door opened, flooding the white yard with yellow light.
"No, Kobuk!" shouted a young boy. "You come!"
The Malamute stood, gave the cat one last sniff, and obeyed his little master. The door shut, darkening the yard. Soon, the window's beacon was extinguished. The night and the storm took control; it was cold, windy, wet, and dark. The kitten "chuttered" in misery -- not a meow or a cry -- but an open‑mouthed vibrato of desperation.
Once more, the kitten struggled toward the now darkened door. Resolutely, she inched her way painfully forward. Finally, she crouched before the dogie door and sniffed at its borders. She knew there was safety on the other side. She knew she had to go through.
Tentatively, she leapt for the miniature door's frame. She cleared the ground, but the trap did not, and she was jerked savagely back to the porch. She cried out and inhaled deeply to shut out the pain. She crouched there, shivering, trying to regain the strength and resolve needed to overcome this obstacle.
She leapt again. This time, she jumped with force and determination. As she came to the end of the tether that was her leg, the last toe fell away, and the terrible, heavy trap rattled to the ground.
The kitten's momentum carried her through the hinged dogie door, and she landed in the darkened interior with a yowl. She had landed on the mangled stump of her wounded leg which was now grotesquely decorated with only one toe.
The Malamute, hearing the intrusion, silently came to investigate. He sniffed at the cat and nuzzled her with his huge but sensitive nose. Even in misery, the kitten responded; she arched her back and twitched her tail around that warm, friendly face. She purred.
There was a warm and gentle fire lazily dancing in the open fireplace. There was no mantle, but in front of the hearth was a low, sturdy kindling box. Two elaborately decorated stockings hung from nails in the box. One stocking was marked "Mike." The other read "Mandy" along the upper border. Both were modestly filled with the things so important to children. From Mike's protruded a kite and a balsa wood airplane. The long, silky hair of a doll flowed out of the top of Mandy's stocking.
The tortoise‑shell kitten, attracted to Mandy's stocking, crawled into the roomy opening and pushed her way down into the inviting security of this Christmas tradition. It was warm. The kitten was secure. She closed her eyes and relaxed. She fell asleep, unfettered and content.
Early in the morning, the wind stopped. The snow continued to fall heavily, but now it was a quiet, dry, and peaceful blanketing. Mandy awoke to the new silence. She rubbed her sleepy little eyes and yawned. For just a moment she started to lie back again, and then she remembered: it was Christmas!
She scampered down the ladder that connected her loft to the living room and kitchen below. She hurried toward her stocking. As she reached out for the golden curls that cascaded from the stocking's top, they moved. Mandy squealed with six-year old naïveté and joy.
"Its real! A real, live Barbie!" she exclaimed, but only Kobuk was there to hear her.
She reached into the large stocking. She felt the warm, soft tortoise‑shell kitten. The stocking vibrated as it shared the reverberations generated by the kitten's intense purring. As Mandy gently withdrew the kitten from the protection of the stocking, she murmured with reverence and disbelief, "Its a kitten. A real kitten! Oh, my! Its hurt."
Mandy gently clutched the kitten to her rosy cheek. She compassionately rocked from side to side. Tears rolled from her innocent eyes.
"Oh, thank you, Santa! Oh, thank you!"
(Note: This story combines two true incidents. The first is a trapped cat situation resolved by Animal Control. The second is Mandy Miller's discovery of a kitten in her Christmas stocking in Moose Creek, Alaska, just down the Richardson Highway from the 6985th. Mandy and Mike are children of the recently deceased 207 Jim (Squirrel) Miller. Jim and his wife Donna swore they knew nothing about the kitten and had not placed it in the stocking.)