By Lisa Scottoline
I have sad news to report, in the passing of our beloved barn cat, Barney.
He was a beautiful chunky tabbycat with bright green eyes, who wandered onto my backyard one day and decided to stay for ten years, until he passed away.
He died suddenly of kidney failure, and all of us are in heart failure.
I say us because I live on a horse farm, and I don’t run it myself. I have a wonderful assistant, Nan, and a wonderful barn manager, Katie, and all of us loved Barney. Daughter Francesca loved him, too, giving him extra hugs whenever she came home, and my friend Laura adored him and so did my friend Franca, who brought over her grandkids and even they loved him.
I love cats, and amazingly, I still have Vivi, my house cat who is now eighteen years old and going strong, thank God.
The loss of any cat, or any pet, is heartbreaking.
But Barney’s passing made me realize that there’s something unique about a barn cat.
I don’t know how much time you spend in barns or around horses, but the way it sometimes goes is that there’s a random cat that sticks around to catch mice, or maybe he doesn’t stick around but drops in from time to time. And sometimes he’s given a name and sometimes he isn’t. He’s a cat with a job, which is to catch mice, and more often than not, he’s nobody’s cat.
But Barney was everybody’s cat.
That sentiment was expressed by Katie’s husband Sean, and he was exactly right.
Barney got his name because he lived in the barn, but he had a personality as big as any barn. He was unbelievably affectionate, purring on contact, greeting everybody who came over, then following all of us around, including any plumber, electrician, or carpenter.
We had to tell contractors to close the windows and doors on their trucks because Barney would inevitably find his way in, pilfer their lunch or make himself comfy.
He wasn’t a cat, he was a mayor.
We lived and worked in his city.
The only rules he followed were his own.
He hung with the horses and drank from their buckets.
He curled up on their backs and they didn’t even mind.
He caught mice and arranged them like a serial killer.
He left pawprints on all our cars.
He had 243 nicknames and came to all of them.
He was a total character and of course he was a rescue who rescued us.
It was Nan who spotted him first in the yard, and she went to him immediately, noticing that he had infected abscesses around his neck. He wore no tag or identification, but she took him to the vet that day, and we got him antibiotics and plenty of canned food.
He healed in two weeks and never left.
He was always free to roam but never did.
We heated the tack room so he’d be warm year ‘round, and made him a cat door, so in no time it was his palace. He had all the wet food he wanted, plenty of treats, and lots and lots of love.
He faced down any neighboring cats who trespassed on his property.
All of the dogs here were afraid of him, even though they’re bigger.
He protected the farm, us, and democracy in general.
Because he was so much a part of all of our lives, we all feel a hole in our hearts at his loss.
We can still see him walk across the pasture.
We can still hear him purr in our ear.
We can feel him making biscuits on our laps.
We know his meow, strong and insistent, or chirpy and cheery.
Barney was much more than a barn cat.
He was an everywhere everything everybody’s cat.
And we all loved him very very much.
Rest in peace, Barnstable.
Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2025