Cats come into our lives, and their past is often a blank. We know they have been affected by the things that have happened to them, we can see it in their personalities. But we can only guess the reasons for it.

I met Barney on one of my trips back to the farm where I spent my teenage years. He had been, at one time, the top barn cat. It was Barney’s job to father kittens, and it was obvious he had been taking his job very seriously. All the other cats on the farm, and there were many, had been domestic shorthairs. When we began to see black, medium-haired kittens, we knew Barney had been on the job.

But that summer, Barney’s fiefdom was under attack. A yellow tom from a neighboring farm had decided to move into Barney’s territory. He was a big, strong cat, having been well-fed when he lived at the Redding farm.

For whatever reason, this yellow tom decided there was opportunity here. Maybe he saw a girl cat he liked. Maybe he just looked at Barney and decided he wanted what Barney had.

There were fights. Terrible, screeching, yowling fights. The two cats were well-matched at first. The fights generally ended with Barney and the yellow tom separating, going to their corners, and licking their wounds. Gradually, though, Barney began to lose.

When I met him, his ears were shredded, his face was scarred, his hair disheveled. If at one time he’d been sleek and fat, he was no longer. He was a pathetic-looking thing.

Was it my love for underdogs that made me decide to adopt him? Take him from that farm near Gettysburg where he was losing ground day after day? Bring him to my home in a Nashville suburb?

His condition was just awful. He smelled. Some of his wounds were fresh, some partially healed, some very old. There were scars and scabs too numerous to count.

It was clear his days were numbered. He would not survive, if he stayed in the barn. He was in desperate need of veterinary care and the removal of his family jewels. He needed a bath. He needed so many things. He needed time to heal. He needed, he needed, he needed.

The local veterinarian promised to do what he could. I dropped him off the vet’s office in the morning and picked him up that night. The next morning I put him in a carrier in the back seat of my car. He cried. And he cried. And he cried. Had he ever been in a carrier before? When I could stand it no longer, I pulled to the side of the road and opened the cage door.

Before I’d gone another mile he was in my lap. For the next 12 hours, he stayed there. I had to move him when I stopped for gas and bathroom breaks. He waited patiently in the passenger seat until I returned to the car, bringing with me a sandwich, a drink, and some turkey for him.

Friends who came to visit looked askance at him. One remarked that he wasn’t very pretty. I admitted that it was true, but when his wounds healed, and his hair began to cover his scars, he would once again be a beautiful cat.

Months later, he is. Beautiful. Those large cheeks that tom cats have? Gone. His fur? Lovely, soft, shiny. His scars? Not so noticeable anymore.

I don’t think he misses the barn where he was once king. He is king here in our Nashville, TN home. He goes out when he wants to, comes in when he wants, and always at night. He loves Friskies, Fancy Feast, Temptations, Churus, and turkey.

He loves sleeping at the bottom of our bed. And we love having him there.