As I wrote in this series a few years ago, 1995 was an odd Christmas. It was the year we had Mexican food for our big meal and watched, of all things, “Mortal Kombat.” It was also cold and snowy, the latter of which isn’t always the case on the holiday.
I also remember that holiday because of my cat, Booker. My father was never a cat person, and his tolerance for them was rather low. Our cats spent little time in the house and typically had to fend for themselves in poor weather.
Booker, though, was different. Aging with and gray with black stripes, he was tough as nails, salty to most, but protective and kind to the Webb boys. I realized just how much the old man liked him that morning in 1995 when he walked into the kitchen, looked onto the back porch and saw Booker walking around with snow all over this back.
“Son, let Booker in,” Dad said. “He can spend the day in the house.”
That Christmas was one of only three we had with Booker. He entered out lives in 1993 at my father’s property in Quenemo, Kansas. My parents had recently divorced, and Dad was splitting his time between his place in Lyndon and Quenemo.
We were spending the weekend with him, as we often did in those days, when Booker wandered into the yard. Considering the property was in the middle of nowhere, we had no idea where Booker came from or belonged. What we did know is he was hanging around, and our dog, Jody, liked him.
“Jody usually hated cats,” Dad said. “He and Booker got along. Plus, you guys liked him.”
I also suspect my father liked having the company around, enough so that I’m fairly certain Booker stayed in the house when we weren’t there on the weekends.
Booker’s time with us might have been short, but the memories were plentiful and lasting. There was the fight with a raccoon that he somehow survived, despite a bloody eyeball and barely moving for several days.
He learned my schedule while attending college and, like clockwork, woke me up at 7:30 a.m. every morning by rubbing his head on my mine. He trolled our obnoxious, barking neighbor’s dog, who was chained to a pole, by sitting inches from his face. If he knew I didn’t like somebody who was in the house, he’d roll around on the carpet and walk up and shock them.
Sadly, I came home from covering a softball game in Emporia one day in 1996 and couldn’t find Booker. We never saw him again. As much time as he spent outside, any number of things could have happened. I hope my old man’s theory that the neighbor hauled him off isn’t true.
Nearly 30 years later, though, I think of Booker from time to time. He was one cool cat, even in cold times.
TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS SERIES
Twelve Days of Christmas, Part V: About Joplin, my hometown
Twelve Days of Christmas, Part IV: Christmas in Arkansas
Twelve Days of Christmas, Part III: From the archives
Twelve Days of Christmas, Part II: The Pine Tar Derby
Twelve Days of Christmas, Part I: Rest in peace, Dan Ascheman
2022 finale: The search for James “Danny” Hollingshead continues