The legend of Carrots

Nine lives and Lazarus

My brother was recently attacked by a dog while travelling in Colombia. He's now getting the rabies vaccine and we’re all pleased to learn that it sounds like he's going to make it. My family and I discussed this situation over a video call last week, which brought up some memories of my rabies scare in the 90s. It's actually attached to a few funny stories, so I decided to tell all in this week's Substack. Forgive me if you've heard a few of these stories before.

It begins around Christmas time in the Rolling Hills subdivision of West Columbia, South Carolina. I'm probably 8 or 9, and I'm in my neighborhood doing kid things. Suddenly I am attacked and bitten on the hand by an angry feral orange cat. I report back to my parents with a bleeding palm. They are less than thrilled, particularly as we are driving to see my grandparents and extended family in Kentucky in the morning. Now is not the best time for a strange cat bite. My mother calls DHEC. They tell her that if someone is bitten by a potentially rabid animal, you have a little bit of time before they die. You can either find the biting animal and make sure it doesn't have rabies, or you can get a shot or two in the stomach to prevent a slow and terrible death.

Neither options are ideal over the Christmas holidays.

My mom reminded me in our video call that she did call the dog (cat) catcher that night. The cat catcher found the orange cat, but sadly "He got away from me.”

So little Alex is no closer to finding out whether or not she has rabies, and either way the Morrises are making the ten hour drive North. That Christmas at Grandma’s, myself and particularly my hand receive lots of attention and concern from extended family members. I do get sick with a temperature. We all learn about Cat Scratch Fever. Christmas is panicked and short lived; we come back early to hunt for the sneaky orange trouble maker. My neighbors tell Mom they've seen the cat around and my parents even put up signs looking for the thing.

After a few days back in South Carolina, Mom finds him! He is still feral, but not rabid, yay!

Now you might suppose that a mean ol' tomcat that shortened the Morris family vacation would go straight to the pound, but if you assume that, you don't know my Mother. Mom takes pity on the cat and makes him a temporary home in our screened-in porch where he stays for weeks, becoming the Morris family project. We name him Carrots and try to domesticate him. It never really works of course, but he is fine. He (perhaps unwillingly) joins the Morrises outdoor cat clan. 

Unlike Australia, the “outdoor cats are bad” campaign does not exist in the United States. My childhood is made up of two types of cats. We have indoor cats who get the royal treatment including beds to snuggle in and litterbox lounges, and we have outdoor cats who hang out in the garage where my brother and I feed them heaping scoops of dried Meow Mix and give occasional love pats. Carrots, Stripe, a grey cat whose name I can't remember, Bessie, her kittens Ringo, Paul, George, John and Pumpkin, all of these cats are sort of ours, sort of the neighborhood’s. Occasionally one upgrades to indoor cat status, (Bessie even eventually moves with my parents to Kentucky) but for the most part these are free range cats that we love when they are around but generally we don’t know their whereabouts.

(Now that I live in Australia I know that our outdoor cat clan was probably eating all the birds of Lexington County, but we were ignorant of that at the time. )

Anywho, Carrots is always a little bit mean. Sometimes he is affectionate and cuddly but he turns on you in an instant, becoming scratchy and bitter. Maybe his absent tomcat dad gave him this toxic trait, but nevertheless we try our best to love him.

Years later, Carrots is sadly missing. No one has seen him in weeks. We become frightened about the fate of our feline. Then suddenly my parents discover a flat orange patch of cat on Platt Springs Road, the busy street off of Rolling Hills. We confirm the worst. Carrots is roadkill.

Someone (I'm presuming my dad) gets a shovel and scoops him up into a bag for a proper burial in our backyard. A funeral is in order; we've been through so much together. The Morris family gathers and say our last goodbyes. I say something along the lines of: 

"You were a good cat, Carrots. I forgive you for attacking me, and I hope to see you in heaven one day."

We all cry, hug and sit in our grief.

But the story doesn't end here.

Two or three days later, I am up in my bedroom being a teenager, when I hear my mother's giddy scream. She calls for me and my brother to come downstairs. What’s going on?

I rush down and Mom’s in the garage doorway, an enormous grin on her face.

"It's CARROTS!!"

Much to our shock and joy, there he is eating the Meow Mix, oblivious to the ceremony we'd had for his departure! The family, while feeling slightly gaslit about his pseudo death, are ultimately amused and excited. We later wonder what we had buried in the backyard. Jokes are made about nine lives and Lazarus.

Carrots was back.

As I reflect on it now, I don’t remember how Carrots actually did die. I don’t know if I went to college or my parents moved or what. Who knows, maybe he’s still wandering that subdivision, hissing and attacking curious precocious children who want to be his friend.

As always, thanks for joining me.

Here’s what I’m learning about this week

This opinion piece in NYT on the importance of sex in an increasingly sexless society.

I read about an American peace activist named Rachel Corrie who was crushed to death by an Israeli armored bulldozer in Gaza in 2003.

I wrote a review (that’s free to read) in the Newcastle Herald about my interesting time at WOMADelaide, but also here’s a great article particularly about the Rwandan band The Good Ones from ABC. Their story is fascinating and their music is healing. Thanks WOMAD!