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A Cat Named Garbage
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Cat's Life
By Timothy Martin No one should be condemned as trash; even a little stick can serve as a toothpick!
~Atharva Veda The first cat I ever owned came from the county dump. I found her sitting atop several metric tons of detritus, licking one paw and rubbing her eyes with it like a sleepy baby. I fell in love with her on the spot and named her Garbage. I was seven years old at the time, and what I wanted most in the world was a pet. I had never owned an animal before and was anxious to try my hand at taking care of one. This cat would do fine, I told myself. First I had to clear it with Mr. Sprull, who owned the dump. He was a man with an overfed midsection and an eye-watering aversion to soap and water. He wore greasy overalls and walked with a whiskey lilt. I hung around the dump a lot that summer. Often Mr. Sprull would hire me to pick through the trash for him. He didn't care much for grubbing about in the garbage himself, so he stayed on the bank while I burrowed through the tangle of muck and debris and retrieved anything that looked promising, such as old tools, copper wire, dead batteries, stained clothing, and radios that never made a sound. I would climb onto the piles of rubbish until I could reach down to wherever he was pointing. Half the time I was thigh deep in an odorous stew of rotten food, greasy car innards, and decomposing animal carcasses, but I didn't mind. When I told Mr. Sprull about the cat, he gave me a quizzical look. (Keep reading) | 