Aquatic Kitties

    It was the dernd’est thing.  That’s all I can say when I think about that situation.  I usually don’t speak that way, being from LA.  You would be more likely to hear “that was hella weird” coming out of my mouth when I witness a natural oddity.  But “dernd’est” is exactly the word to describe the picture in my mind.  First imagine you are out in the back woods of some mountains in some small town with one bar, one post office, and one local market all on the same street.  Not to difficult.  You imagine driving out of the city.  The freeway slowly loses weight, turning from six lanes, then to four, the suddenly you are the only car on the two lane road that is labeled as a scenic route.  Green trees line the highways as the sun shines patches of dancing yellow on the road ahead.  The air is clean and fragrant.  A small exit sign informs you to turn off at the next exit, where you continue driving down a long straight road in a valley. 

    Soon you pull into the town.  There you walk in to the one restaurant/bar in the center of town.  This is where everyone meets.  You walk up to the bar.  The bar tender puts down his cigarette next to the tip jar.  He grabs a towel and opens a bottle of whiskey.  He pours a shot.  Out of the back comes a man with overalls and dirty hands.  He takes a seat at the bar and begins to sip at his whiskey. The bartender glances at you then speaks slowly as if you don’t understand English.  He says “need something,”  He doesn’t ask it, he declares it.  You reply that you’re here to check on the story of the kittens, and that you were supposed to meet the owner of the land those feral cats lived on.  “That’s me.” Replies the whiskey drinker at the bar.  “Ohh, so you’re here to see the cats.”  Speaks the bartender with wide eyes.  “They’re real popular these days.  I suppose your from the big city too.” he says as if being from out of town means I’m carrying some sort of infectious disease that will wipe out their small community.  Perhaps in some way I did. 

    I am a photo journalist for the Times.  A new one, or better, a newer one.  I did my time taking pictures of weddings and school functions for the varying local sections the paper puts in different neighborhoods to pretend that they care. 

    The old dirty man took me to his beat up rusted red ford.  The passengers seat was filled with trash so I sat in the back with a goat that had been eating brambles on the side of the bar we were just at. We turned off the main highway onto a dirt road. A few more minutes we turned onto another dirt road, this one even more bumpy and potholed than the first. The truck suddenly lurched then came to a stop. “well here it is” the man said.  We were at a clearing where it was easy to walk up to the banks of the river. And there they were. The aquatic kitties.

    Imagine if you can, two cats swimming around on their backs in a small river.  Yes, I said two cats.  They would go about their business sunning themselves on logs then slipping into the water like an otter, popping back up and swimming on their backs.  Their little cat muzzles with wet whiskers were sticking straight up in the air.  They did this all day. Meowing and purring right along with the gurgles of the river. In and out. diving and playing. Swimming in water. It was the dernd’est thing.