Conference misery::feline_v1

1183.0. "Coon Cats, A Maine Event" by HPSTEK::TBOWEN () Tue Mar 15 1988 11:43

	Reprinted without permission from the Boston Globe about this
	time of year, by Tony Chamberlain.



		Coon Cats, A Maine Event in Springtime

If a happening is to qualify as an event in late winter, it must come with
a certain quality of deliverance about it. We must, at all costs get out
of this.

A delivering event does not necessarily have to be the opening of upcountry
trout season or the rather overdone appearance of the crocus, or even the
blessed end of collage basketball season.

The event can be far more subtle, or rather quieter then that. I went looking
for such events the other day, and did find 12 off-road vehicles parked
beside the town-forrest access road near my house where the path leads back
to a shallow bass pond. Here a legion of refugees from winter television
had walked their canoes back into the woods, then bumped around among the
tiny snowy islands for a while before going back to more television. A more
adventurous duo launched a canoe at the Kingston town landing and pushed
off into the Jones river. After the puffy wind and swirling current turned
their canoe around a couple of times, reminding them of the still-utter
mortality of this season, they returned to the heater in their Toyota pickup
truck.

When I lived in Maine a number of years ago, far enough up that such clear
harbingers of the new season are at least six weeks away from the Ides,
there was in my small region a little ripple of delight in the birthing
season of Coon cats.

This coincided with the birth of calves. In the brutal windswept tundra
of central Maine in March, most often deep in the night when the barn would
be quiet except for the random shifting of warm and heavy sleeping beasts,
the births would take place. On some farms, the farmer or a hand would stand
watch to aid, if needed, and if he could. Almost never was he needed. In
the morning the calf already would be trying to stagger to it's feet seeking
the teat.

But in a deeper nest, further secreted in the dark of the barn, it was the
season of the birthing of Coon cats as well. This was almost always secret
untill several weeks later the kittens were old enough to venture onto the
barn floor. If someone were waiting for a Coon cat, it would be scooped
up and delivered. If there too many to get rid of, they were most often
taken to the humane society.

Which is how I came to to know something about Coons, a large, long-haired
cat that combines the wildness-tempered-with-patience of a great hunter
with the most gregarious human nature of any breed of cat I've ever run
across. Except for Jake.

Jake was a 22 pound pure pink male Coon with an ability to leap 7 feet in
the air from a standing start. It was usually without warning and usually
at someone's throat. Jake was an unhappy and misunderstood cat who cost
us many friends. As apocryphal as it may sound, as the curator of my back
yard I can swear to one legend about this Coon cat: Jake died in November,
was buried with dignity and a slab of granite, and the next summer sent
forth a shock of deadly nightshade over his grave.

The Maine Coons, which only in the last 20 years have come to be offically
recognized and registered as a legitimate breed by cat officialdom, were
just two years ago adopted legislatively as the official Maine cat.

At least part of the reluctance in recognizing the Coon was the origin of
the beast, deeply rooted in romantic legend. The cat with the long tufted
mane, elegant ears and enormous ringed tails has been identified in legend
with the Persians, the Vikings, the Chinese, and even the French Queen
Marie Antoinette.

In that legend, the captain of a French ship set to rescue the queen and
her family from the bloodiness of the French revolution had packed the
family belongings - including several cats - aboard the ship bound for the
Maine coast where Marie was planning to live in exile. Of course she never
made the party herself, but some of the entourage - including the cats - are
said to have been released on the rockbound shores of Maine where they 
eventually became a feral population.

Other legends found the cats with a strain of wildcat to them and, of course,
the old rockingchair tale saved for the Downeast tourist - the cat was a
crossbreed cat/racoon.

Whatever, the fascination with the cat grew through this century to the point
where in New York City, hucksters were getting $100 for Main Coon kittens.
In the same era, I got my last two in central Maine for a donation of $5
to the local humane society.

The first Coon in my life, Dennis, came from Portland some 30 years ago.
Dennis was pure white, over 17 pounds, and lived almost entirely outdoors
in a tree at the level of the second story windows. As are all Coons, he
was a marvelous hunter who would sit stock still for hours untill the moment
was just right to flick out a huge paw and pull in a small bird.

There was no reason to worry about Dennis in the trees except for the day
of hurricane Carol. He was as impossible to dislodge from his tree as always
and, as the storm raged and tore in the woods, we could only assume that
he had come to a quick end. We could not see him anymore, of course, but
in the morning aftermath Dennis was back in his sunny perch for the day's
hunt.

I am reminded this month of the Maine Coon cats' birthing by the two who
reside with me now. We had gone in mid-March to the humane society in
Westbrook and put in our request. The old fellow who ran the shelter told
us to come back later. The kittens were just being born this week and the
ones not needed for ratters would be coming in from the farms in about a
month.

That was many years ago. One of those Coons who still sees to things around
my house has lost a step or two now. Once able to spring on a bird before
it could take off from a lawn, this one is now pretty much an indoor hunter
with a magical quickness for an unminded half a ham sandwich.

I was reminded this morning of Coon cat season in Maine when, as I read my
paper, my cereal spoon clunked down on an enormous black-and-white head
hard at work in the bowl in front of me. This old Coon may not be much of
a sparrow anymore, but a bowl of corn flakes dosen't have a chance.

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When I read this a few years ago it hit home. I grew up in central Maine
(Norridgewock) and even though I'm not there now, I do have two Coons.

    That was an enjoyable story, thank you for sharing.
    
    btw - as soon as I find my house, I am going to get a Maine Coon
    (I thought it was spelt "Coone"). 
    
    anna/zildjian/spunky
    

    great story !!!
    
    Really hits home ....
    
    I'm going to take it home and read it to Samantha tonight.
    
    (samantha is our 18 pound, female Maine Coone).
    

      
            That was a great "tail"!
                 
            I'll have to take it home for my Ruby, my 17 year old, 20
    lb. Coon to read.  He'll love it! 
            He originally came from Maine too!

                                Denise

    Well, speaking of Maine Coons - there is going to be a Cat Show
    in Portland - University of Southern Maine Gym on April 16th.
    9 am - 5 pm sponsered by Downeast Cat Club and the United 
    Maine Coon Cat Association.  
    
    Directions: From the South - Maine Turnpike North to Exit 6A - 
                                 Route 295 to Portland, then take
                                 Exit Forest Avenue NORTH, Exit 6.
                                 Falmouth Street is on the left 
                                 about 1/4 mile.
    
    E.T.