Boat cat named Pommers or how Jason saved his life

 

Named the cat Pommers, war horse in the Arthur Connan Doyal novel I happened to be reading the day I got him. Seemed fitting, me and the scruffy black cat charging off shore after the elusive wild salmon like a night and his steed galloping into battle.



Truth of the matter, didn't really want a cat on the boat. Nothing against cats so much, but we already had FuFu, nine pound cross eyed Siamese male at home.  Always suspected him of plotting my demise.  Then too, expecting baby Max to arrive on the scene in a few weeks, another cat seemed a bit much at the time.

When Sherman climbed down into my little cabin cuddling a somewhat scrawny black cat, I politely declined his suggestion that I needed a fishing companion.    "I've asked at every boat on the dock, you are the last one in the line.  If you don't take him . . .

That night Pammers ate like a king, a quarter cup of gently poched salmon flaked into his new food dish.  Cut off tin can on the deck.  Insisted on crawling in the sleeping bag with me at night, settling in down toward the foot. 

Rough and ready guy.  In town, out to all hours tom catting.  Leave the door ajar so he can get back in on his own.  Can't count the times his purr brought me half awake in the wee hours, wet from head to tail crawling down into his place in the bunk.

We both got sea sick at the start of a fishing trip.  I'd sit in my place in the wheel house, one foot bracing across to the far wall in deeper rolls, munching the sea sick treatment I used in those days.  Farmans sweet cucumber chips and Ritz crackers. Two crackers with a pickle in the middle sandwich style really went a log way toward calming a queezy stomach.  Pammers moping around in similar discomfort, turned his nose up at my snacks.

But not for long.  Half hour after I got the poles out and dumped the flopper stoppers, I'd see him hop over the high threshold onto the deck, sacrifice breakfast to the sea, then scamper away in fine high spirits, good as ever.

Smart boy sure.  But god damn it I still feel like shit, wouldn't be salted down until the next morning.  Wondered if following his treatment plan would have a similar result for me, but for some reason I have a phobia about barfing and didn't give it a try*.

He must have been living on a boat before coming to stay with me.  Cautious about going too close to the edge, and trained to pee and poo on the burlap bags we used to cover the gear on the small deck aft the trolling cockpit.  Convenient for me, washed those things every morning after setting the gear out anyway.

During the days he watched me work, jumping out of the way when freshly caught salmon danced in the water filled bins where I processed the catch.

A cat named The Wosser lived in the Wanderer with Rich and Johnna in those days. Somewhat more bold that Pammers, she often scrambled up and down the poles, out over the water, occasionally losing her balance and falling in.  Those folks must have had lightening reactions to rescue her with a five gallon bucket.  Glad I didn't have to try that with my cat, but I always kept a close eye on the little guy when we were out fishing. 

The Wosser; fire must be out in the galley range that day

August seven turned out to be the big day for Max.  Karen called out to the La Push coast guard saying that he would be here soon.  I took a load of ice the previous evening with the plan to be out of the river at first light.  Unexpected storm came in over night, keeping me snugly in my little bunk instead of charging offshore when the guy from the base rattled my door with the news.

The photo at the top, taken about ten years earlier, shows the exact place I lay that morning.  A narrow floating walk way ran between the pilings, boats rafted together several deep on both sides.  I lay on the hook in the river until about two in the morning when wind singing in the rigging woke me and I edged on in to tie up to a raft of boats lashed to the outer end of the dock.

New dad fever set in.  Grabbed a couple things, trusted someone would haul the boat in toward the float and tie it off as the fleet filtered out of town in the wake of the little blow.    Found someone driving into PA who dropped me off at the airfield, chartered light plane across to Bellingham, cab to the hospital.  Saw Max make his entrance into this life with a half hour to spare.

Poor little Pammers and the boat pretty much left unattended for the better part of a week before I made it back out to La Push.  Both managed fairly well.  Ice in the hold melted and the automatic pump ran one of the batteries low, water several inched deep on the galley floor, the cat hungry.  Nothing serious.

Anxious to be home watching the baby, I did manage to scratch out something in the way of fishing over the next three or four weeks before calling it quits for the season.  Transition from life in the boat to the house up town went better for me than Pammers.

New baby center of attention.  FoFo getting his mind around the idea of a baby in the house, feeling quite strongly that we did not also need another cat.  And who could blame Pammers for not understanding the difference between the burlap bags on the stern of the boat and the carpet in the living room.

Like to say that I handled the issues with loving patience.  But not so much.  After hassling around a few days we decided to adopt Pammers out to another family.  Euphemism for taking him on a one way trip to the pound.  Felt conflicted, but after all one is a product of upbringing.

The day we decided Pammers fate, our old friends Rich and Janie had come to visit along with their son Jason.  Just a tiny tyke.  Hardly out of diapers, precocious in his speech, infectious grin, shock of his dad's rust colored hair.  How could I know a kid that little could read?

Riding in the front seat of my sixty Chev Pickup holding the cat, Jason  looked up as I pulled into a parking space and saw the sign over the door.  "Why are we stopping to the pound?"

Throughout the progressive college and hippy years I determined not to make the same parenting fumbles as my own folks.  My style would be honest, open and sharing, no secrets.  Planned to lie through my teeth to Jason about the cat going to a new home.  .

Busted now.  Not only had he unexpectedly read the sign, but his tone told me he knew exactly what was coming down.  On the fence about doing away with Pommers in the first place, no way I could justify the deed to such a sweet little guy.

Probably mumbled something about making a mistake, backed out of the driveway, headed on home with the cat.

Next weekend Jerry and Jenny came up from Tacoma to see Max, and fell in love with Pammers.  Took him home where thanks to Jason, he lived out the full measure of his seven remaining lives.



*Became violently ill the first few times I went out in trollers, but by the time of this story I just felt half sick for several hours the first day out.  The shorter the stay in town, the shorter the sickness. Parties and meals in greasy spoon joints probably caused as much discomfort as the sea.