Of all the photos I have of our cat Albert, the one that best illustrates his unique, unforgettable personality is the one where he's posing as "The Orange Dog," a founding member of the three-dog, one-cat security team at Cypress Creek Farm, our place out in Perry County, Arkansas. There he is lying in the shadow of a small tree on a sunny spring morning, surrounded on all sides by approximately 300 pounds of large dogs, acting as if he's completely in command.
There's Jesse, a large, dominant Great Pyrenees; Maggie, his partner, an aggressive Anatolian/Pyrenees cross; and Pupska, a German shepherd mix somebody dumped along our road. Also Albert, a white-faced orange tabby who spent most of his waking hours prowling the grounds with his three big friends.
Maggie, in particular. The first time we introduced them, Albert was sitting on a chair, a kitten not a whole lot bigger than my fist. She stuck her big, black muzzle in his face, and Albert jumped on her head. Fortunately, she loved it. The pair bonded for life. I believe Maggie thought she was his mother.
There's another photo of Albert taken at about the same time, sleeping on Fred the basset hound's back on a living room chair. Fred was a promiscuous snoozer who would cuddle with anybody that wanted a nap. There are similar photos of him snuggled in the hay with 3-month-old calves. Those, we kept off the furniture.
When you have cattle and horses, you have grain. And when you have grain, you have mice. This is pretty much how cats domesticated themselves in the first place. As he grew older, Albert became an enthusiastic mouser and friend of horses. Between him and our resident black snake, rodent sightings became rare in our barn. (The snake also stole eggs, but we had more than we needed.) Born on our neighbor's front porch, Albert had been around chickens all his life. He was, however, properly leery of roosters.
The cat also hunted in the pine thickets dotting the pastures around our place, and I started worrying when he didn't show up at night. Most evenings, I'd call for Albert around 10 p.m. when I put the dogs up. It was that or listen to them exchanging curses and threats with coyotes all night long.
Usually, Albert came running. I'd shine a big flashlight down toward the creek, and I'd soon see the reflection of his orange eyes as he came bouncing home for dinner. As I'd never fed Albert anywhere but inside the house, if he wanted his supper, he had to come home. Then he'd curl up at the foot of our bed and lie there purring until dawn. He was very affectionate — again, almost canine.
One time when I was laid up with broken ribs, Albert transitioned from outdoor to indoor cat for a few weeks. He sat purring on the arm of my TV chair, helping me watch Red Sox games until I healed up, then went back to the woods.
After a few panicky nights when he didn't come home, I figured out that Albert had found a second home in the neighbor's hay barn, about a half-mile through the pastures. We'd hook the big dogs up to their leashes and walk down there to fetch him. Albert would come running out to greet us and follow us home through the fields, panting like a little lion. Out there, he moved like a wild animal, hiding and then sprinting for cover after he determined that the way was clear.
One day as we approached the hay barn, Albert came sauntering out through a flock of turkey vultures feeding on the ground — an amazing sight that Diane has never gotten over. They ignored each other like strangers in a New York City subway station.
After Diane's eyesight faltered, we moved back to the city. Albert vanished for three days, and then came home, walking atop a rock wall carrying a dead rat to exhibit to his dog friends. Alas, the Cypress Creek Farm dogs have all since died.
Albert decided he couldn't abide Aspen, an enthusiastic young Pyrenees/husky mix we took in from the Arkansas Paws in Prison program where Diane volunteered. He moved down the street to live with our neighbor Laura, a self-described "crazy cat lady" who kindly took him in. I'd walk down to see him now and again. Sometimes he'd follow me halfway back home before returning to Albert World Headquarters on her elevated front porch, from which he could survey the neighborhood.
The other day Laura called crying to say she was afraid that Albert's time had come. He'd quit eating and drinking and grown feeble. We met them at the veterinary clinic to say goodbye to the greatest cat that ever lived and whose memory I will never forget.
Gene Lyons is a National Magazine Award winner and co-author of “The Hunting of the President.”
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