I was just heading up to the house after working on a project for the sheep when I spotted a little black-and-white cat poking around the barnyard. Naturally, I immediately named him Sylvester. Now, it’s no secret that we’ve got a few unwanted inhabitants around the barn who go by the name “Mickey,” so I thought it might be nice to have a cat around to help with the situation. But there was one big problem: Rita, our guardian dog.
Rita has never been around cats. She knows to chase off raccoons, muskrats, and any other trespassing critters, but could she ever be convinced that this little cat wasn’t another invader? I had my doubts—and spoiler alert, this story doesn’t have the picturesque ending you might be hoping for.
I gestured to Rita to come see Sylvester, but she didn’t seem to notice him, so I headed to the house for lunch and left the situation up to them. When I returned to the barn later for afternoon chores, I found Rita out in the hayfield with Sylvester in a standoff. Nose to nose, neither of them wanted to make the next move. Rita barked, the cat hissed, and that’s how they stayed—for an hour.
Chores done, I knew I had to deal with the situation. Rita had her job to do—keeping watch for coyotes—and she couldn’t spend the night distracted by this cat. I headed out, armed with leather gloves, ready for some feral cat handling. I foolishly tried to calm Rita down with a few kind words, hoping they could somehow be friends. Unsurprisingly, that didn’t work.
Plan B: remove Sylvester from the situation. I decided to bring him to the house to live with our other cats. As I reached down to pick him up, the tension broke. Rita saw her chance. In a split second, Sylvester was in her mouth, making some very concerning sounds, as she trotted back to the barn—to her bed, where she always brings her new “friends.”
Now usually, I’m fine with that routine when it’s a pesky varmint I have no use for. But in this case, I didn’t want Sylvester hurt, so I followed them to the barn. There he was, laying six inches from Rita’s nose, looking terrified but otherwise unharmed. I knew I couldn’t leave him there for the night.
I tried to pick him up again, but Rita beat me to it. This time, she grabbed him belly-first and found out that Sylvester came equipped with some very sharp teeth and claws. Within seconds, she had him in her mouth—and he had all four paws latched onto either side of her nose. It didn’t take long for Rita to decide this cat wasn’t worth the trouble, and she let him go pretty quickly.
It was clear they weren’t going to be best mates.
I finally managed to grab Sylvester, who promptly sunk his teeth into my glove—just enough to poke my finger. I got a grip on him with one hand, jumped into the truck, and drove across the farm to the house. I thought I was doing him a great favor, but apparently, he didn’t see it that way.
As I pulled up to the house, I suddenly felt a strange wetness on my backside. Confused, I thought what could that be, after all I have my heavy insulated coveralls. That’s when it hit me: Sylvester had been holding it during that hours-long standoff and finally let loose... all over me. I was amazed that so much liquid could come out of such a small animal!
He’d had a hard day, so I didn’t scold him for the accident. I put him down in the yard with the other cats and some food. Surprisingly, he didn’t rush off. Who knows where he came from, but I’m pretty sure I won’t see him back at the barn anytime soon.
Farmer Rod