Frankie The Feline Goes North
by Gail Whiteside
 I travelled to my home on Baffin Island
in the Canadian Arctic recently carrying a special passenger. He's four
months old, has shiny black hair, big green eyes and a mean meow! My
passenger is an adopted kitten. He was abandoned in the farming community
of Napanee in Ontario. The local humane society was caring for him. They
called him Sinatra. I decided that re-naming him Frankie was a good
compromise.
Getting to Baffin Island from Napanee is no small task. I secured
Frankie in his new travelling cage and boarded the train to Montreal. We
had to overnight with a friend before making the connecting four hour
flight up north. Once arriving in Montreal, my friend thought Frankie
needed a good stretch. As a new cat owner I didn't know if this was a good
idea or not. NOT! No sooner had we opened the cage when a blur of black
shot out from inside and disappeared in a flash. It wasn't until midnight
that we finally found Frankie - huddled in an opening in the back of the
fridge. Flexing our muscles we gave a big heave-ho and pulled the fridge
out. Then my friend bent down and stretched her arm as far as it would go,
all the while uttering coos of encouragement to the frightened Frankie. I
stood by, unable to quite fathom this search and rescue attempt. Finally
she pulled Frankie out. There he was, looking scared and weary. That
made three of us.
The next morning, half an hour before the airport taxi arrives, we lose
Frankie again. I'm close to tears, but my friend slips into her Rescue 911
mode and lifts out the pullout couch. Hello cat! Frankie had wedged his
way inbetween the folds of the mattress.
Moments later, the taxi arrives and wisks us off to the airport. At the
check-in counter the attendant looks at me and asks if I'm really sure I
want to send this "leetle kittie" all the way up to "that
frozen place" I call home. After a few pangs of guilt, I give her a
silent nod. But my mind is racing... what had I done? And what kind of a
life sentence was I handing this poor leetle kittie? Too late to turn back
to Napanee now. The cargo handlers took Frankie, and he disappeared from
my sight once again, but hopefully, not for long.
After a safe flight, we arrive in Iqaluit. Frankie is carried from the
cargo area on the plane, still safe in his cage, but looking a bit wild
eyed. Things don't improve much once we get home. Frankie bounds out of
his cage - and surprise - pulls another disappearing act. I decide to let
him be. I know he's somewhere, because I can hear him crying out. He's not
a happy camper. Fast forward twelve hours and I decide it's time to find
out where Houdini is hiding. I recruit one of my Inuit friends to help. At
first she's reluctant. As a rule, Inuit don't take kindly to cats. You
see, cats didn't live up on Baffin Island until strange white people like
me started buying them plane tickets north. Before long my Inuit friend
starts whistling. She's good at that. Usually she whistles outside looking
up at the Northern Lights. It's supposed to make the spirits in the sky
dance. Back down on earth, the spirit of Frankie is detected in the spare
bedroom. This time, he's lying in the underlining of the box spring of my
bed. Face it, the cat is an inventive recluse! I lift Frankie out of his
makeshift hammock and my friend takes a few steps back. She tries uttering
some encouraging words in Inuktitut but Frankie isn't amused. He gives
both of us a sour stare.
It took a few weeks, but this young farm cat from Napanee soon changed
from a sourpuss into a real charmer. After awhile, my Inuit friend worked
up the nerve to pet him. This time Frankie didn't run away.
©
Copyright 1993 Gail Whiteside.
Not to be reproduced without permission. |
