Barn cats have always captured my imagination as much or more than any animal. They are mystical and spiritual beings.

I think that cats are often less domesticated than dogs or even donkeys; this is why so many people love them. They don’t give it away.

And barn cats are never domesticated, even when they learn to trust one or two humans over the years.

We have two barn cats, Minnie and Flo. Minnie is very attached to Maria and runs away from everyone else but me. Flo is attached to me; she is the first cat who seduced me with her affection, independence, and resilience. She doesn’t run away from anything, but she ignores almost everything.

She has terrorized our dogs, Fate will go around the yard to avoid her, and Zinnia pretends not to see her. Flo lets the UPS driver scratch her ear for a minute or two, but that’s about it.

Yesterday, I wrote about our sudden realization that Flo was deaf and, as such, was in danger from cars coming into the driveway, which she can no longer hear, and from foxes or weasels or coyotes, who might go into the yard where she sleeps, hunting for food.

Pulling into the driveway, I didn’t see her and almost ran over her twice.

I am just not comfortable leaving her to get picked off by a coyote or run over by a UPS truck.

Maria and I understand these kinds of things since we have to make life and death decisions all the time. We each have veto power over the other; if we don’t like an idea, we veto it; no protracted arguments, it’s done.

We have to agree to do something to any of our animals, from Vet pills to medications to putting them down. We each respect the other’s feelings, even when we disagree.

Barn cats lead independent lives, dependent on milk or scraps from farmers and others, left to make their way in heat, snow, and storms. Many go off to die alone when it’s time.

Flo is in the middle. She likes to come into the basement for a few weeks in the bitter cold. She loves to climb far up in the woodshed to crawl into the blanket-lined box we made for her.

Otherwise, she roams the pasture and the barns at night, looking for prey. At least she did before she suddenly got old and is now deaf. She sleeps almost all of the time now.

We sat down two or three times to figure out what to do to keep Flo safe and make her remaining years peaceful. Maria and I usually agree, but we were not quite in sync on this issue.

We switched our usual roles.

Barn cats are mystical animals that have captured my imagination since I moved to my first and second farms. I think they are the most amazing animals, balancing dependence on humans for food and shelter and being fiercely independent, living on their wits and hunting skills.

I love how they take over the barns, owning them, ruling them, exploring every nook and cranny. They know how to get out of the rain, the wind, the heat and the cold. Everywhere they go, they leave little bodies behind. They love to hunt; they love to kill.

Flo loves to sit in my lap and get stroked when we both are still and in the mood. If I go outside to sit in one of the chairs near the apple tree, she will usually show up, hop into my lap imperiously and wait for some stroking and scratching. The dogs all disappear.

All she has to do is look at me, and she knows whether to approach me or not. If I am not in the mood, she moves away.

I have to look at her to figure out the same thing. Like a donkey, sometimes she’s in the mood, sometimes not. Either way, it’s got to be her idea, and when she’s done, she’s done.

She’s not a cuddly or fawning kind of cat; she is happiest out in the moonlight, dancing in the barn rafters (this is how I imagine her) or pouncing on baby rabbits, mice, or moles, leaving various pieces for  us to see when we open the back door.) I love Flo and admire her; I want to do right by her.

But she is a true child of nature, a killer who delights in torturing her victims.

I think she’s in danger. She used to scatter the send any car or truck pulled into the driveway. Now she doesn’t see or hear them; she sleeps and must be physically touched or moved to get her out of the driveway.

A FedEx, UPS truck or USPS van might not even see her lying in the driveway on a warm and sunny day.

We talked about euthanizing her to keep her from a bad death. We both rejected it immediately. That is not the answer for a barn cat still independent and hunting. The barn cat’s life is difficult and dangerous; that is just the way it is.

But what can we do? Maria thinks there isn’t anything we can do; I insist there must be something.

I had two ideas. One was to put her in the basement, where she spends the coldest winter months. She likes it down there, there are plenty of dark spaces and tunnels and mice, and it is warm in the winter and cool in the summer. The sun enters several windows, and several families of mice crawl around.

Maria vetoed this idea; she said Fate should not spend her last days in a basement when she still gets herself up into the woodshed on the front porch. As a barn cat, she should end her life in freedom.

I understand how Maria feels; it’s a good (and empathetic) point. I dropped the idea.

Then I suggested we get one or two signs painted up, or Maria can make them, saying “Caution: Deaf Cat.” We would put one on a tree or the front porch on either side of the driveway.

This would signal landscapers and delivery trucks – and us – to be alert for Flo coming into the driveway.

Maria thinks it’s a good idea and we agreed on it. We’re going to do it.

We also decided that we wouldn’t do anything else to save or protect Flo (we might take her to the vet to make sure, but she is deaf and aging).

She might get picked off out there and run over by the side of the house. That’s the life of the barn cat. We accept her right to live out her life as a barn cat and take her chances up to and through the end.

Barn cats are different from other animals. I think differently about them. So does Maria.

They are not pets, they are wild and independent, but we have learned that they can attach themselves to humans over time, as Flo has done to Minnie and me to Maria.

Most barn cats don’t get fed twice a day the way ours do and eat the best gourmet food scraps when left over. That wins a lot of affection over time. Flo and Minnie, both feral cats at one time, still looked stunned by this good fortune.

We feed the barn cats twice a day (I went yesterday and bought some costly tuna fish treats for her and Minnie, and she gets up quickly for those), make sure she has all of her shots, and gets our attention whenever she wants.

Maria and I have agreed.

I accept that those are the limits of what we can or should do, even though the idea of her wandering there while deaf haunts me. There are lots of predators out there at night.

The farm is a great teacher, it teaches us about life, and it teaches us about death, and most of all, it teaches us to accept both.

Flos is not a furbaby or child surrogate.

She is a proud and independent animal who deserves to die like one. I suspect one morning, she will just be gone, having hauled herself out to the pasture to die in silence and privacy.

We will probably never know how it ended. She will just be gone.

No drama, no pity.