Socks And Bourbon
When I was 12 years old my horse had a stroke and had to be put down. It was a warm, green, summer morning. I looked out the kitchen window at his body, lifeless and lying in the corral. Over in the barn there was movement and I saw Socks, the white-footed tabby and matriarch of the barn cats, walk out of the barn and towards the body, followed by a single-file line of the other dozen-or-so kittens and cats. From inside the house I thought, “Oh no, they’re going to eat him.” When the slow parade reached the body, the cats sat down about two feet away, in a long, evenly spaced arc, smelling and looking. After some time had passed, Socks stood up, turned around and walked back to the barn, followed in orderly procession by the others. Even 30 years later I am touched by this memory. This horse (Bourbon Jim was his name) had been a huge high-strung Thoroughbred, but he was gentle and considerate with the cats. Once when I came home from school I found three kittens on his back. I coul