Just A Gal From Glidden: If that cat could talk, the stories he’d tell …

By Kate Winquist

Before I ever wrote a column, we had a cat who thought he could.

Marmaduke was my favourite. A big orange-and-white tabby with more personality than most people. He would sit at the typewriter, batting the keys like he was working on his own column.

For a while, Mom thought he was the most polite cat alive because he always went to the door to be let out.

Turns out, he was just using the houseplants.

That discovery did not go over well.

But that was Marmaduke. Half gentleman, half menace, and entirely convinced he belonged in the house, telling his own stories.

The original columnist.

He wasn’t the only unusual pet we had. Now, “pets” might be a generous term in some cases.

Our dad, it turns out, had a bit of an animal whisperer streak. Not in the calm, mystical sense. More in the “if it’s abandoned, bring it home and we’ll figure it out” sense.

There was a baby owl named Réjean Owl, courtesy of Mom’s sense of humour and a fondness for hockey players. My brother Garth says a pigeon rescued from the barn loft that became Walter, after Canadian actor Walter Pidgeon.

Dogs came and went over the years. Daisy, a collie-shepherd cross, was reportedly the nicest but least trainable dog imaginable. A neighbour, Jack Houden, took a crack at it and returned her with the kind of review no dog owner wants to hear.

She still managed to contribute to the family legacy by producing a litter of part-lab puppies on one very cold winter night.

And then there was the runt, Muffin, rescued from a rather unfortunate fate by Mom during a coffee visit. She brought this tiny puppy home, and with his shaggy white fur and floppy caramel-brown ears, Garth figured he looked like a muffin. The name stuck.

We always had cats. Farm cats are less “pets” and more “co-workers,” but a few stood out.

There was Reuben, who would lie among the dill in the garden. I think it was like catnip for him. Tammy, also known as Ma Perkins depending on Mom’s mood, once got relocated to the Bohachik farm to deal with a mouse problem.

That farm was about eight kilometres away.

Tammy disagreed with the transfer and simply walked home.

And then there was Taboo, the skunk.

Yes, a skunk. In the house. Not even descented.

That’s not a pet.

That’s a decision.

Marmaduke might have been the first one in the family who thought we had something worth writing down.

Looking back, I’m not entirely sure when I started writing, but I have a feeling Marmaduke got there first.

Maybe I didn’t start writing. Maybe I just took over where Marmaduke left off.