02 November 2026
Story # 2035
R. Linda:
Well, it isn't every day you're corralled into getting a cat out of a tree, but I did that not too long ago in my own yard. And because me endeavour was successful, I was the one called to remove another cat from someone's tree.
I had been home enjoying my extra hour of sleep and had just awoken to the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting up from below, and all was right with Gabe's world. I got meself out of bed and followed the aroma to the kitchen, where I sat me down, as me little grey-haired, apple-cheeked Mam put a large cuppa before me with a freshly made piece of Brambrack, covered in melting Kerrygold. Oh, the decadence!
I was in Daylight Savings heaven; I was!
That is until I started me second piece of Brambrack and was just slathering more Kerrygold on that warm piece of deliciousness when me phone rang. I reluctantly stopped what I was doing and picked up.
It was me old neighbour from where I first lived; we have been friends ever since. He had a dilemma he did, and he was wondering who to call when he remembered me telling him how I got a cat out of a tree at me house and well, he had the same problem. This cat he had did not let him and his wife enjoy that extra hour of sleep; no, it did not! It was up in the tree outside their bedroom, yowling the entire night.
As a result, he said, his wife was in a "crabby mood" and did not make breakfast. A sin for a farmer, not to have sustenance first thing before feeding the barnyard. And, deprived of sleep himself, he was not in a great mood either! They snapped at each other and blathered over small things while, outside, the serenade continued unabated.
SHE tasked HIM with getting that infernal cat out of the tree.
Wasn't his cat, he said. "No," he said, squinting out the window at it, "not one of our barn cats."
"Well…fix that. Get it out of that tree." And that was an order, and well…what choice did he have? Be sleep-deprived for the rest of that cat's life up in the tree, have to listen to the "little woman" grumble at him about cat incompetence when it comes to removal techniques, and worse of all, she might be too angry to ever pick up a pot and pan again. Oh, the horrors of such thoughts!
SO…Who ya gonna call?
ME, OF COURSE. I had somehow got a reputation as a cat-tree rescuer after one cat situation.
And me, being a friend of the man and his significant other, could not refuse. So off I went, jamming that last piece of bambrack down me gullet and Mam pouring coffee into a thermos; I was off to do me rescue bit.
When I got to me old neighbours, he had a ladder propped up against this King butternut ready for me. I got out and instantly heard growling overhead, not the meowing or meow-wailing one expects to hear from a treetop feline.
"Angry kitty," I said to the old man.
"Ay-yuh, that it is. Looks like a tiger cat, maybe from the farm down the road, but they say no. I think they just don't want to be bothered, ay-yuh."
"Well, let me get me gloves and up I go," I said cheerily. I had me Mam's oven mitts because this was a cat I did not know and didn't want to get scratched.
So up I went as he held the ladder. It was a climb; I can tell you that much. That cat was nearly at the treetop, and the ladder, while sturdy, was way up high, so yours truly glanced down every so often, thinking: this be getting dangerous.
The further up I climbed, the louder the growling got. When I was an arm's length away, I looked up and said, in the gentlest tones I could muster, "Ah now, Kitty-kitty, I be here to help ye down, I am."
I put me gloves on, took one last step up the ladder, and I was face to face with a bobcat! Yup, I was staring into the glowing yellow eyes of an ear-tufted wild thing that looked like it was about to rip me face off. What to do? I was speechless, stunned, and not afraid to admit the cold panic running up me spine in a dire situation.
I took out me phone and snapped a shot, and the click made the wildcat swipe at me hand. He missed, but I had the image, and I texted it down to the man below. See here:
 |
| That bobcat looks entirely pleased with himself, doesn't he? Sitting up there surveying his kingdom, while I nearly lose me life AND me Mam's oven mitts! |
"Gabe, I think ya should come on down now." The old guy called up to me.
"Do ye now?" I said, looking to go down a rung slowly in case the "cat" decided it was hungry; since it had been up there a day, I was sure it be hungry, and well…
Slowly I took a step, and it snarled, almost scaring me enough that I almost fell over backwards, but I grabbed onto a branch to steady meself.
"That was close!" The old man yelled.
"You think?" I mumbled, not taking me eyes off the now aggressive, pissed-off animal. Then I noticed it had food. It had gotten squirrel (make that plural) and had been munching away, so it was up there for a reason and would come down when it was fed.
"Is this the tree with the squirrel family?" I shouted down to me former neighbour.
"Why yes? It got a squirrel up there?"
"From the looks of it, I'd say it has the whole family."
"Well…Gabe just started backing down slowly, and I'll hold the ladder for ya." He said not very reassuringly.
I did, ever so slowly, until I was five feet from the ground, then picked up the pace to get down.
The old man, with a speed I didn't know he was capable of, brought down that ladder just as fast, and we legged it inside.
Each of us, holding full glasses of whisky, stood behind his bay window and looked out at the tree and then up at the munching bobcat.
Several seconds later, the old man's wife came in with a steaming cup of joe and stood squinting at us, like she wondered what we were doing and looking at. She saw the whiskies and frowned.
"Awful early in the day to be takin' a drink, don't ya both think?"
We started mumbling together and pointing, making no sense whatsoever, which only frustrated her more.
The old man went into another room and returned with a pair of binoculars. He handed them to her without a word, just pointed to the top of the tree.
Not sure what she'd see, she held them to her eyes and looked up. For several seconds, there was silence. Then the binoculars came down.
"THAT'S NOT A CAT!"
"Well, technically…" Her husband began.
"Don't you technically me, old man! That's a wild animal up there!"
"Ay-yuh," said her husband, taking another generous swallow of whisky. "That's what we've been trying to tell ya."
She looked at him, then at me, then back at the tree.
"And just what are ye two plannin' to do about it?"
There it was. The question neither of us wanted to hear.
"Well," I said, choosing me words carefully, "from what I've observed, he's quite comfortable up there. Got himself a nice view, a bit of fresh air, and a rather extensive breakfast menu."
"Gabriel!"
"And," I continued, "I suspect he'll come down when he's finished eating."
She stared at me as though I'd suggested inviting the creature in for Sunday dinner.
"So, we're to have a wildcat living in our tree, eating every squirrel in the county, and the two of you are just goin' to stand there drinkin' whisky?"
"Well, not indefinitely," I said.
Her husband nodded. "We'll need another bottle eventually."
That did it.
She set her coffee down with a bang, gave us both a look that could have curdled fresh milk, and marched towards the living room.
"FIGURE IT OUT!" she shouted over her shoulder.
We stood in silence for a moment. Then the old man looked at me.
"Well, Gabe, what d'ya reckon?"
I looked at the bobcat. The bobcat looked back at me. Then I looked at me whisky.
"I reckon," I said, "we ought to call someone who actually knows how to get a cat out of a tree."
"Ay-yuh. Know anyone?"
"I did," I said, raising me glass. "But he's just retired."
And that, dear R. Linda, was the beginning and the very abrupt end of Gabriel's Cat Rescue Service. One satisfied bobcat. Two thoroughly chastened men. And not a squirrel left to lodge a complaint.
Gabe
