You did what?

I am ashamed to write about this. It seems to be something that is particular about me—or at least no one else ever talks about doing such a thing. At first thought, it seems to be a symptom of an unsatisfied, unloved, maladjusted childhood. To describe my childhood, I thought, would be the portrayal of a fairy tale existence—huge family, lots of toys, parents who care—all hallmarks of a fine life.
I can’t be sure how many times I did it, or even how many weeks, months or years passed between the first time and the last time.

All throughout my childhood, we had heaps of cats around the farm. I was especially fond of them. I can tell this by the number of pictures that feature me during my ‘under-eight’ years sitting near a group of cats who are eating. They aren’t paying any attention to me—they’re just crowded around some unseen pile of table scraps.
During the early years of my life, we would simply throw out the scraps and, with seven kids in the family, the cats would have a ball. As the youngest, however, by the time it became my turn to feed the cats, there weren’t as many people at the table, and we had to bring in outside grub. We would order a fifty-pound bag of dog food from the same place that provided feed for the hogs. A delivery truck would bring a ton and a half of feed to the farm. On the truck’s flat edge would be a yellow and white bag of dog food, stuck there like an after thought along with the serious feed being delivered. Each night, I would fill a tin, 1-gallon Folgers coffee can with dry food, and add warm water up to the brim. I would let it sit for 10-15 minutes until the food soaked up the water and became soft and easy to eat.
I thought it was especially neat when turned the can over and the food would slide out while maintaining the shape of the can like a blob of gelatin. Many times, I could even see the ribs of the can. Some people might have thought it was an unappetizing blob of goo, but I always imagined sinking a fork into the warm paste and coming out with a delightful mouthful of dog food. My perceived prohibitions against eating dog food and comparisons we used to make about the school food, however, nullified such an adventure.
As I stepped out of the mudroom with the food, a couple cats would be sitting nearby, waiting patiently. Before I said anything, a few more would appear from under the bushes nearby. Then I would begin the call. Each kid in our family probably had his or her own way of announcing that food was ready. “Herrrre Kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty! Here kitty! Here kitty!” I cried. When I began, little bodies from the out buildings would begin streaking across the yard. Zoom! From the hole under the wall in the shop. Whoosh! Out from behind the pile of metal bars. Whiz! From their warm nest in the barn. Once in while, after they all begun eating, a cat two would dash in from one of the finishing sheds out north.
I imagined how the critters would like some meat and I wanted to give them extra pleasure on holidays or on my birthday. On Christmas Day, I remember taking my sloppy boots off and sneaking upstairs to spirit away some salami or a hot dog and putting it into the food. The animals probably never noticed. The atmosphere out near the water hydrant where I threw the food on the ground was nip, nip, scratch, claw, and growl. They all ate as if it was their first meal in a year—without a thought to taste or contents. When they were given table scraps, peas and lettuce would disappear just as quickly as beef or bologna. I doubt that anything stayed on any cat’s tongue for more than a fraction of a second before being gulped down.
I’ve carried this love of cats into adulthood. I’ve seen beautiful cats in Holland, Thailand, Great Britain—we carry cats to each of our new homes. A dog-loving friend commented once how while she is infatuated with Shelties, she doesn’t care much about other dogs. For me, on the other hand, this interest in cats extends to all cats. I speak in loving terms about ANY cat we see—a totally indiscriminate sense of affection boarding on obsession as if we are parents to the feline universe.
There were usually two groups of cats eating the food off the ground. The first tier was made up of the old hands who had been around the farm forever—Blackie, Frisky, Tiger, and Snowball. They had their kittens in not-too-difficult-to-find places and they had been discovered before they were old enough to turn wild. Thus, these kittens were played with, peered at, held high, grabbed hard, and annoyed mercilessly until they became putty in a little child’s hands; these youngsters were the cats who came flying in from mouse patrol. The second group consisted of “wild” cats that always had a look of extreme anxiety. They would let you come near, but never close enough to pet them. It was two of these wild cats, a couple particularly unattractive, scruffy, nondescript grey parasites that were the objects of my strange exhibitions of violence.

For such a person as I to do what I did seems way out of character—almost unbelievable…but not quite.

Life on the farm is nothing if not pragmatic. There was never much time for the loving of animals. I liked pigs and I still do, but that never kept me from loading them in a truck and driving them to be slaughtered. Animals were our business. We kept them all at an arms distance (except for the one pig that would come up to me and gently chew my hand when I put it in his mouth), including the cats.
We had as may as 30 cats around the house. All day, they sat on the steps sleeping and soaking up the sun. This fact annoyed my mother quite a bit. She was tired of having to boot cats out of the way when she left the house with a basket full of laundry or a plate of bars for the guys. She is a calm, non-violent person, but she told me to find a gun and shoot some of them. When I think about it now, such a request sounds out of character for her, too. I imagine, though, that she must have had some experience with behavior such as shooting cats while she was growing up on a farm a dozen miles away. I did actually shoot a couple. We had an old .22-claiber rifle covered with dust on the top shelf in the shop. I shot a couple slackers who hung around for the food only, not for petting or catching mice. I think the experience of shooting cats may have put the idea in my head to do something like the deed that is the topic of this story.

I know approximately the time of year because of the type of gloves I was wearing. They weren’t leather mittens with black and white striped wool liners. We wore those on super-cold days when you can’t really be warm, but merely try to avoid the stinging pain of frostbite. No, it must have been in the fall or spring when the weather was chilly enough to need some gloves, but only one layer. I liked to wear yellow cloth gloves with KENT (a feed company) stenciled on them.
Although the grey cats in questions wouldn’t let anyone pet them, they did not miss a meal. Their scruffy coats fit them poorly and unevenly. No Kitten Chow executive would be coming soon to cast them in any commercials. They hung around the house close enough that they could hear my shouts of, “Herrrre Kitty, kitty, kitty!!” but they weren't in for human socializing.
I didn’t have anything against these cats in particular, it’s just that they were handy, and I didn’t care about them. At that age, I no longer spent much time with any of the cats. I still liked cats and carried them on my shoulder once in awhile, but they didn’t capture my fancy as they once had. It’s true that these cats were freeloading off the food given to the cats we liked, but I didn’t care much about that.
Why I would have committed such brutal acts? I don’t know. Life on the farm has a reputation for being lonely and boring. Maybe I was looking for something to add a spark of excitement and energy.

I’ve never told this to anyone, nor have I ever written a description of these actions before. As I said at the beginning, I’m ashamed to admit such a heinous act. I’m sure some doctor will say that it means something is/was amiss in my character. For that matter, I can’t definitely say there is not something wrong. Maybe there is latent hostility. Maybe I should have played more cruel games and dissipated my aggression. I rarely played violent games. I used an extended index finger and raised thumb to portray an imaginary gun less than half a dozen times. The only ‘violent’ video game I played was an Atari game that involved tanks or jet planes on a two-dimensional surface throwing missiles at each other. I didn't have any experience pulling people from cars and beating them up.

While they ate, I would approach the cats from behind and grab one by the scruff of the neck as their mothers used to do. Then I turned them on their backs on the ground, or even held them up, and squeezed. They were not able to make a sound as I constricted their windpipe. Their legs were pawing the air, sometimes barely snagging the sleeve of my coat. Their terror-filled eyes became wide with confusion as every vein screamed with oxygen starvation. They sometimes would force out one gasp of helplessness, or a snarl of revulsion. At about this time, I was always surprised to see their lips and tongue start to turn blue, so I let them go. The victim would stagger a few feet away, cough a couple times, and rejoin the others.

THAT’S WHAT REALLY HAPPENED. The ending is entirely unsatisfying though.

Here’s another:

While they ate, I would approach the cats from behind and grab one by the scruff of the neck as their mothers used to do. Then I turned them on their backs on the ground, or even held them up, and squeezed. They were not able to make a sound as I constricted their windpipe. Their legs were pawing the air, sometimes nicked my skin; unconsciously, I would tighten my grip. Their eyes became wide with terror, as every vein seemed to pop out trying to escape. Soon, I was pleasantly surprised to see their lips and tongue turn blue—oxygen starvation had commenced.

Or another:

They sometimes would force out one gasp of helplessness, or a snarl of revulsion. At about this time, I was always surprised to see their lips and tongue start to turn blue and I would panic. I snapped out of my creepy alternate self and set the cat gently on the ground. He would walk a few steps away, cough and shake his head. Only rarely would the little fellow look at me as if to say, “What the fuck are you doing?” before rejoining the others at the food pile.