My Old Wool Coat

Story and picture of Smokey courtsey of the author William Coolidge III.

I read this story in the SmallFarmer's Journal, summer 2007, and thought it a wonderful story of compassion and redemption.

After takin’ more than a decade off from deer hunting, I allowed my older son to cajole me into buying a big game license last fall. Naturally, one of the first things I had to do, if I was once again going into the woods in pursuit of the wily whitetail, was get all of my old huntin’ gear together. The rifles, ammo, compass, boots and wool pants were all in fine shape and rarin’ to go, but my ol’ red & black, “buffalo plaid” wool hunting coat had seen better times ~ it was gettin’ a little threadbare in spots, the zipper was ripping out, and besides that, it seemed a tad small on me, after so many years of ‘neglect’! Must’ve shrunk while it was hangin’ in the closet, that’s all I can figure!??

Well, a few days later, in conversation with my mother, I mentioned that I needed to buy a new hunting jacket. At which point she said, “Jeez, Bill, your father’s good Woolrich hunting coat is still hanging in the upstairs closet ~ or, would that be too small on you?”

Now, there’s NO wool coat in the world that I’d rather wear than the one that had belonged to my Dad, but since he had passed away nearly 4 years earlier, I had forgotten all about his coat. Well, Mom dug it out, I tried it on, and it fit like it was custom-made for me ~ I felt as warm and snug as if I was wrapped in my father’s arms.

Thanks to my son, Billy, who had persuaded me to go hunting again, I now had a special treasure in my possession ~ one that otherwise might never have come my way! And, equally as important, it freed up my old wool hunting coat for what was about to take place.

On Veteran’s Day afternoon, my cat, Smokey,

suddenly lost the use of his hindquarters, and began yowling in a strident, high-pitched cry, as if to signal us that he was in a great deal of pain. Now Smoke (a velvety-soft, steel-grey, domestic short hair…. and so much more), was not an old cat, by any means ~ approximately 20 months of age is all he was. But he had sustained some type of injury to his hips the summer before, and after being X-ray’d to confirm that he had no broken bones, the vet put him on Prednisone and he was soon pretty much his old self again. But an observant eye could perceive that he’d always lie down a little awkwardly, that he enjoyed laying under the woodstove (much as an older cat or dog likes to ‘soak up the heat’ into their arthritic joints), and that he definitely had a bit of a “hitch in his git-along.” He loved nothing more than to stretch out on the bed beside me at night, snuggling himself as tightly as he could against my thigh.

So, when I headed down off Rand Hill that Saturday afternoon, takin’ my “ol’ buddy” to the vet, I never had an inkling that it was anything more than another bout of what he’d experienced the previous summer. After a couple of X-rays, however, I received the bad news: Smokey had congestive heart failure (rare in such a young animal), & had ‘thrown a clot’ which lodged in his femoral artery, effectively cutting off most of the circulation, and all of the feeling, in his hind legs.

Thus began 48 hours of tears, prayers, pacing and nail-biting (on our part), and medication, oxygen therapy, electrocardiograms and ultrasounds for Smoke. Although he put up one heck of a valiant fight (in the words of the vet who was treating him, he had “an amazing will”), Smokey passed away, peacefully, 2 days later.

So, on a gray, rainy Monday afternoon in mid-November, I wrapped myself in the wool coat I’d “inherited” from my father, then wrapped my four-legged best friend in my old wool coat and laid him to rest in one of his favorite places in this world ~ right beneath our bird feeder!


Two final thoughts: To the wonderfully-compassionate veterinarian who went ‘above and beyond’ in her efforts to save my beloved cat, I offer yet another heart-felt “Thank you!”

And, regarding hunting season: I think that it’s over for me, at least for the foreseeable future. I just don’t think I could bring myself to take the life of an animal now ~ and, I seriously question whether I ever will again…. [In retrospect, that’s OK, though; for if Smoke, in his passing, saved the lives of others in the animal kingdom, then he did not die in vain.]