Dear Reader,

Many children collect dolls, teddy bears, or other stuffed animals to make their lives feel comforting and complete. My sister had tons of dolls, including more than 20 plush Garfield dolls. Her favorite was a Garfield doll with a bowl of spaghetti over his head. My favorite was her lone Odie doll. Odie the dog was Garfield’s frenemy. As a kid, I loved dogs—even if they scared me. Where I grew up, most dogs had sharp, angular teeth and vicious growls. I could pet my sister’s Odie doll without fear of losing a hand. 

In prison, many of us collect objects: people, animals, anything to fill the void in our lives. Over the years, I’ve met men who amass enough dictionaries, Bibles, fitness books, model train magazines, and other literature to overflow their lockers and spill out onto the floor. I’ve met men who befriend everyone they encounter. 

I’ve also witnessed many fights over who gets to feed the feral cats in the yard. Oh, you didn’t know we have pets in prison? They, too, make our lives feel more comforting and complete—until they’re taken away from us, like everything else.

“Mama Cat doesn’t like ramen noodles,” Pill Call yelled, rushing to push the new inmate Ted aside. Who has ever heard of a cat that likes ramen noodles?

“Hey, man. I just wanted to pet her,” Ted said. 

“Don’t,” Pill Call warned. “She’s not your friend.”

It was as if Mama Cat understood Pill Call’s words when she swiped Ted’s outstretched hand and clawed him good. 

“Stupid cat!” Ted moved to strike the cat, but Pill Call blocked the blow.

“If you ever want to go home, I suggest you leave her alone,” Pill Call said. “I’ll be watching you.”

“Screw you, buddy—and your stupid cat,” Ted responded. 

For the remainder of the day, Pill Call sat at a picnic table with Mama Cat on his lap and stroked her fur. When supper time rolled around, he shared a pouch of sardines with the cat, feeding her from his own spoon.

Several weeks later, for reasons only known to prison higher-ups, everyone in the honor dorm was relocated to the other side of the prison yard. Pill Call included. Mama Cat—and the small house Pill Call built her—remained behind. 

“What are you going to do about your cat?” I asked.

“I begged the warden to let me move her here with us, but he told me she’s the prison’s cat,” Pill Call said. “Who’s going to feed her now?”

“Maybe she’ll make her way over to this side,” I said, hoping my words gave him consolation. 

“Maybe,” he said. “We didn’t even ask to be moved. Everyone knows she’s like family to me.”

Pill Call was a frail old man who had spent the last 19 years in prison with me. He appeared ancient in the absence of his “only friend.” 

Even Ted attempted to help Pill Call. Every morning that first week in our new dorm, Ted set out a bowl of sardines for the cat. 

“It’s not going to work,” Pill Call told Ted. “Mama Cat likes it over there on the other side. There’s a reason folks like me and Trumbo stay in one place and stick to our routines. Habits mean something. I’m just going to have to find something else to do with my time.”

Pill Call was serving a life sentence and was known for two things: his reliance on psych meds and his cats. Over the years, Pill Call befriended and raised every feral cat in the prison yard. 

“Why can’t you file a grievance over the cat?” Ted asked. “Everyone knows she’s your cat.”

There were actually three cats in the yard at the time, I explained to Ted. They all came from nearby farms—and they didn’t really belong to anyone. 

“Mama Cat, Tiger, and Mu Mu,” Pill Call said. “I named every one of them. Always have. I talked to the powers that be, and they all said the same thing: ‘Those cats are free, Pill Call. You aren’t.’”

“That’s not cool,” Ted said. “Whatever happened to compassion around this damn place?”

“I can’t even spell ‘compassion,’” Pill Call said, moving away to watch a pair of birds in the field. 

They were killdeers. The birds nested in the rocky field off to the side of the rec yard walking track. A group of men gathered around the nest to see the baby birds, and the parents flew above, making shrill cries in the hopes of protecting the chicks. The stupid birds ain’t got sense enough to build a proper nest.

We watched as Pill Call shambled over to the assemblage of men and ran them off. 

The next day, Pill Call showed up bright and early, armed with a box of saltine crackers and a bowl of water. He posted up beside the rocky field and ensured no one bothered the nest.

“Why does that man do what he does?” Ted asked.

I yawned and took another drink of my morning coffee. I came outside to get away from everyone in the dorm. Prison doesn’t offer many reprieves from the noise and bustle of over a thousand men going about their daily lives. 

“It’s how he stays sane,” I said. “When Pill Call came back to prison … ”

“Came back?” Ted asked incredulously. “You mean he’s been out?”

I nodded and took another sip of my coffee. There was no use letting it go cold. 

“Pill Call has spent most of his life caged up. This is his fifth time in prison. To hear him tell it, he’s been confined longer than he’s been free.”

“Is he telling the truth?” Ted asked.

“He’s got no reason to lie.”

Ted shook his head. 

“He’s just like one of them damn cats.”

“Worse: He’s like them birds. Born free, but unable to make their homes anyplace else but behind the razor wire.”

“I feel sorry for him,” Ted said.

“Don’t. He’s got everything he needs here. Three meals a day … ” 

“Why would he keep coming back to this?”  

“You should ask him,” I answered.

I watched as Ted walked over to Pill Call. Soon, I could hear them talking about their love for cats. Like old friends catching up in another place at another time. 

For a moment, it was almost like prison couldn’t cage either of them.

The Right to Write (R2W) project is an editorial initiative where Prism works with incarcerated writers to share their reporting and perspectives across our verticals and coverage areas. Learn more about R2W and how to pitch here.