Did you know that I found Friday The Cat on a frozen, snowy, January night (a Friday-the-13th, no less!) nineteen years ago? It was on a highway in the middle of nowhere in upper Northern Minnesota. In a place where population is marked at night by counting the distant yard lights that farm and homesteads have near their homes or barns.
Nineteen years ago. Negative 32 degrees. About 9 pm. Pitch black darkness. Driving east on a highway with clods of icy snow littering the shoulders of the road. A snowball turned its head and two shining green eyes looked in my direction. Of course, I pulled over.
Poor baby appeared to be a white cat with gray spots. He meowed and ran to me when I got out of the jeep to check on him. He was shaking. When I picked him up, he buried his face in the crook of my elbow. I carried him back to the vehicle and looked for possible homes nearby that he could be from. There weren’t any. The surrounding area was black. No yard lights. Desolation.
I am a cat owner. I held him. After awhile, his foot started to bleed. He was missing a toe. I was headed to mom & dad’s house, so I continued there. Many names were considered. Friday the 13th… Lucky, Felix, Snowball, ah… Friday.
My parents didn’t have indoor animals at that time. They didn’t have cat food. Mom had made pancakes for dinner that night and had left overs. Friday acted like pancakes in buttermilk was nectar of the gods.
He still likes pancakes.