Onions sacks and kittens

My grandparents had - on average - five cats at a time throughout their lives. When my family and I would visit their house, I would see white cats, tabby cats, pregnant cats; bowls were strewn everywhere, along with various fishes and meats. On my trip to my grandparent’s kitchen, to nose through their fridge, I would be attacked by these purring beasts that knew only absolute gluttony and laziness.

My mother would sometimes get a phone call telling us that they had a new litter of kittens. Even in the late eighties and early nineties, small town out port communities would not spade or neuter their cats. Most animals would roam around freely with all their reproductive organs in tact.

She had a distain for her mother's fetish with cats. “Crazy old bitch,” as she lit up a cigarette and plunged us into our Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra. “Your grandmother is nuts.”

Seeing the cats would always excite my sister. She is a great animal lover. There were times when we would be highway driving and a squirrel would pop in front of us. Normally, if it were me, I would not flinch and keep true to the lane. My sister on the other hand would suddenly jerk the wheel in any direction, grind the breaks, and scream at the top of her lungs, only to see the squirrel make it’s way to safety. My heart would skip beats and I would always be anxious with her behind the wheel.

I’m ok with the act of saving a member of the wildlife. I mean, I can’t judge her for wanting to save a squirrel; for my life, and for the lives of her passengers, I would have expected her to check the left lane for oncoming traffic first. I value my life more than a squirrel.

My gleeful sister and I would run into my grandparent’s home to see the kittens. The women together adoring the pile of sickly kittens, and my grandfather and I would prepare for the journey.

For some reason he would always wait for me. Maybe it’s a rite of passage? Maybe it's an age old tradition that made boys into men. I’m not sure, but he took great pride in letting me be apart of the population control

We would walk into the musty old basement. It was in need of a dehumidifier and smelled of dampness. The bottom part of the house was carpeted and there were many doors leading into smaller rooms. Pop would grab a large neon orange onion sack and make his way upstairs.

The kittens by this point were tired of my sister’s relentless efforts to pick them up. The mother cat, in all her glory, would hiss and display her displeasure of this festering creature. Milk would run freely from her breast as she swayed over to the last kitten touch; she would smell and then lick the scent of my sister off of the kitten.

They say cats do not possess the same emotions as we do. I disagree, I mean, I think cats are more cleaver than we think. That cat knew that was going to happen, and I’m sure it isn’t the first time her cradle has been robbed by Grandpa.

My Pop would gather all the small kittens up and throw them into the onion sack. Seven or eight, small kittens, making panicked sounds, away from their mother, and not knowing what will happen next.

It would always be a sunny day. Summers. We would track down the lane, past the dog berry and evergreen trees that will always be stunted and sickly. Passing Uncle Larry’s house we would take a right down Blackwood’s lane. The lane itself slopped downward to another small cove of houses. And in the middle of this isthmus we would stop by the shore, gazing down into the reflective water. I know there are countless graves here. This will not be the first or the last time, and this place holds meaning to all men to come by this part of the shore.

He would look at me, almost asking with his eyes, if I wanted to do it this time. I would always look back with hatred and disgust. I would want to scream at him, “Why don’t you just fix your fucking cats. This is an atrocity”. I would always have this anger inside of me, this hatred for this act, and I know I could never talk back.

He would take the sack of kittens, which didn’t cease their crying, and fling them over the bank, into the icy ocean. A great splash, a ripple, and than calm. The air bubbles from the kittens would then float up from the buried sack. We would stand there in silence watching; I would hope that the kittens could escape somehow, but I think my grandfather watched to make sure that the deed would be completed. The last thing he needed was another kitten finding its way back to Nan.

“Those Goddamn cats,” he would blurt out. It would be the only words exchanged until get got back to the house.

It’s such a savage land. People ask me all the time how it differs from the rest of Canada. Growing up in a small out port isn’t something I would wish upon any person who is accustomed to the world. It’s a hard place.