There are three causes, three elements from which to infer the lack of feline occupation.
The first is that the winters are stark naked and breathe mist from their nostrils that condenses into little droplets that form crystal chandeliers on the trees and the underbellies of cars. No cat would choose to dine under such chandeliers. And if it did, an icicle can be the perfect murder weapon when it fell. Come spring, the evidence will have dissipated. The snow provides a less than desirable coat and a cat has trouble walking when it suffers the premature rigor mortis of the freezing weather.
The second explainable causality is coyotes. The grandchildren of ol’ Wiley never got over the lost roadrunner. The ties run thick and course through their blood. It’s been 30-odd years but the fatherly abuses trickle up the family tree, and the most recent generation is just as blood thirsty as the first. (There has been a slight increase in family pacifism as of late. Ronny, Lucille, and Victor never did have a taste for fresh meat and were always sympathizers to the lower fauna. Lucille once had an affair with a Woodpecker and never quite recovered. Ronny and Victor abandoned the family name and are now working at a law firm in Spokane, defending cases of wrongly treated animals. Their clientele is mostly pigs and chickens.) Nonetheless, no cat is safe in the elderly thicket of the Northwest.
The third cause is criticized by most skeptics, though I regard it as a valid concern. The third cause: Bigfoot. The great North American primate that developed a taste for Cat Du Jour and Fromage Dans Chat shortly after the Renaissance. Enlightenment is never good for God’s lower creatures. Just look at capitalism, for instance. As long as Bigfoot continues a feline diet, there will be cats in my country.
These are the three reasons why my father does not want my cat at his house: winters, coyotes, and Bigfoot. At least one of the three is a valid concern.