Winter of 2004, Painesville, Ohio

By Kathy Sak

Stray cats. In my neighborhood they come in every color and every size. I’m not referring to it as a stray cat problem. It’s not a problem for me. I’m just pointing out the stray cat population.

Take Crooked Jaw, for example. I don’t know if Crooked Jaw ever had a home.

It was early one summer morning when I first saw him. He was sunning himself on the concrete steps of my front porch. I kept still and quiet while I peered at him through the full-view glass storm door. I didn’t want to scare him away.

He looked to be older than most of the strays wandering the streets. His short, gold fur was matted and lay in clumps on his body. Strange, for a short-haired cat, I thought. And he appeared to have some sort of rusty-colored stuff on his side. Was it blood? I decided it wasn’t because it wasn’t red enough to be blood. Still, with his back turned toward me, it was hard to tell. Maybe, I decided, this is just one dirty cat.

I slipped into the kitchen to get the dry kibble I always keep handy for stray-feeding. I keep it separate from the kibble I feed my cats. It’s not the cheapest food sold, but not top-of-the-line, either. Usually it’s what was on sale at the time. I always feed the strays.

After pouring a small amount of kibble onto a paper plate, I slowly opened the storm door, so as not to startle my new visitor away. He stood as the door opened, and turned to look at me. It was then that I saw his face.

It was shocking. His lower jaw was offset from his top jaw by almost a full 90 degrees. His bottom teeth protruded over his cheek in a grotesque manner, and pointed toward his ear. His mouth seemed to hang open, and there was a long string of drool hanging from to his side, to that place where his hair turned into that rusty-colored stuff. It’s not blood, it’s from his constant drooling, I thought.

He looked to be an older cat, but he was so ugly, it was hard to guess his age.

He stepped a few feet back as the door opened. I glanced away from him, to something in the yard, to anywhere except at his pitiful face. I didn’t want to look at him. I just wanted to put the plate of kibble down in a hurry and close the door.

I leaned over slightly and tossed the plate onto the cement porch. He stopped his retreat and now stood statue-still. I could hear him making this low, growl-hissing noise, as if to warn me away. He didn’t need to warn me for long. I closed the door quickly, and now stood behind the safety of the storm door while I watched. Could he even eat?

He stepped forward slowly, as though he were weighing the dangers of approaching me against his hunger.

He put his head down toward the plate and appeared to be trying to eat. It was clearly a challenge for him to pick up the food. As he did, he’d twist his head around as he chewed. Pieces of food fell from his mouth and landed on the plate. I studied him.

Maybe he was hit by a car, or kicked really hard in the mouth I thought. It was not a new injury, I decided. Maybe his mouth and face have been that way since birth. It seemed to take him forever to eat, and I stayed watching him from behind the glass door. It was that day I came to call him Crooked Jaw.

After that morning he came for food almost every day for two years. He eventually moved around to the back door for his feeding. I feed all the strays from my back door; I guess he figured this out on his own.

I switched to feeding him canned food because I thought it would be easier for him to eat. But even with soft food he had trouble eating. Food would inevitably fall from his mouth onto his shoulder, and leave a sticky trail down his leg.

I talked to him often. His hissing, if it was hissing, didn’t scare me any more. And after time, his face didn’t seem so shocking. He’d always wander away after he ate.

I respected that four-foot buffer zone he seemed to need. I never tried to touch him. I was satisfied to be feeding him, and talking to him. I felt sorry for him. I wondered if his face could be fixed. Then the reality of veterinary costs would set in. It would be too expensive, I thought. Why bother. Truthfully, I was too afraid of him to even consider picking him up to take him to the vet.

Crooked Jaw and I were entering our third winter. The temperature that week never got out of the 20s, and the ground was covered by a foot of snow. I went to the door to feed Crooked Jaw but he wasn’t there.

I watched for him and he didn’t come. After two days I went outside to look for him. I found him under the deck, which is attached to the back of my house. He was huddled up against the foundation. I got down on my knees in the snow, and I called to him. He wouldn’t come out. I could hear him hissing, which I had now come to accept as a friendly hello.

I went back inside, prepared a paper plate of food, and took it to him. I slid it under the deck, as far as I could get it to slide, in the hopes that he would come out the rest of the way to get it. I stayed there, on my knees in the snow, watching him. But he didn’t move toward the plate. He just looked away, as though he didn’t want to see me.

The next day, when I got on my knees to peer under the deck for him, he was gone. And I didn’t see him again for three days.

I would go outside every day and plow my way through the snow looking for him, or for a sign that he had been there. And I’d call out to him, “Crooked Jaw, Crooked Jaw where are you?”

On the third day of his disappearance, as I called his name, I heard a faint cry-wail kind of noise. I called his name out again and again; each time I would hear this faint little cry.

I followed that sound until I saw him. He was perhaps 15 feet from where I was standing on my deck, crouching down between my neighbor’s house and their air conditioning unit. It was the only place in the yard not covered with snow.

I was so excited and happy to have found him, but at the same time, I sensed he was in trouble.

I cried out to him, “Crooked Jaw, come here,” as though I thought he actually would. I could no longer stand and watch. I had to do something to help him. I turned and ran into the house and grabbed a bath towel. I was thinking I could use the towel to put over him while I picked him up. With a towel for protection, he wouldn’t be able to bite me. That’s what I was thinking. And I was somewhat angry with myself for feeling that way about him. If only he weren’t so ugly.

I ran outside with the towel. Crooked Jaw was coming to me. He was dragging himself though the snow. The snow was up to his neck, and he was struggling. He was trying to walk, but his hind legs were dragging. He was holding his head up high, and looking right at me. I could see his mouth open, and I could hear him cry.

I ran to him, and I knelt down in the snow with the towel in my hand. I placed it around his body, and lifted him up into my arms. He never tried to bite me. I was no longer afraid that he would. For almost a minute I stood there in the snow, clutching him in my arms. Then I turned and ran toward the house.

I opened the back door and took him into the garage, which is just off the kitchen area. It’s not a heated garage, but it offered shelter from the snow and wind.

I gently placed him on a piece of carpet my husband keeps by the door, and I slowly unwrapped the towel. He was laying on his side. All the hair was gone from his hind legs, and his skin was a powder-gray color with slashes of scarlet red. I think his legs were frozen.

I took him a plate of food right away, placing it near his head. He made that hissing noise I had come to love, and picked his head up to eat. He’s eating and that’s a good sign, I thought. Maybe he’ll be OK. Maybe he just needs to get warm. Of course, he was not going to be okay.

He ate a few bites of food and then tried to walk, but he couldn’t get his legs under himself to get up. He struggled, legs flailing, and then lay back down on his side. I was standing over him, and I didn‘t know what to do to help. I wanted to pick him up again. I wanted to hold him again, but as I reached for him, he squirmed away, twisting on his side, to a position where his head was in the corner, between the door and the wall.

It was as though he was trying to bury his face, that ugly little face with the crooked jaw, into the corner and away from me, and away from a cruel life. He was going to die. I couldn’t bring myself to watch.

I quietly closed the garage door.

Maybe 30 minutes passed before I got up the courage to open the door again. It was dark but not so much that I couldn’t see my little cat with the crooked jaw was gone.
He died there alone on the floor.

Maybe that’s how he wanted it. But to this day it still bothers me that the only time I ever held him was the day he died. I didn’t hold him long enough. To this day, I’m sorry for that. And I’m sorry I closed the door. I should have sat with him while he died. No matter what. I should have tried to help him. I should have at least tried to take him to a vet. So many should-haves.

That’s why I say stray cats aren’t a problem. I believe they’ve been sent here to teach us a lesson about living, and dying, and about doing the right thing, even when you’re afraid.

In addition to writing, Kathy also prides herself on her photography skills. She lives with her husband, Jerome, and their companion dogs and cats.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, December 8th, 2006 | Email This Post

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