A Good Day For Goldilocks

       More good news from the cat front!  About three weeks ago, I trapped a little orange female, about four months old, up at the Mesa. Because she didn't seem completely feral, I tried to find a foster home for her among the Feline Network volunteers. When I couldn't find anyone, I set her up in the spare bathroom here at my house. Within a very short time, she was sitting on my lap, purring, and lapping up the KMR (kitten milk replacement) that I gave her as a special treat.

        But there was still the problem of what to do with her. Nobody had room in the foster homes and I'm going away over the Thanksgiving holiday. My wonderful petsitter, Anna Stuart, would be coming in twice a day, but that still didn't seem like enough attention for a cat only just getting used to dealing with humans.

        Then Anna called and said she'd found the little girl, whom I've been calling Goldilocks, a home. A wonderful, animal-loving woman had been looking for an orange female--and solid orange girls are hard to find. Most orange cats are actually male. Today was the Big Day for Goldilocks. Anna came and took her away in a carrier, along with a toy mouse and a can of KMR to remind her of her foster home. I know she will do great in her new situation as she wants nothing more than to sit in her person's lap all day and that is what Anna says this lady is looking for.

       I wish Goldilocks could understand how lucky she is. The Mesa is not a good place for cats during the best of times, and we've just come through a weekend of torrential rain and cold. In all likelihood, Goldilocks will have a long, happy life in a home where she is valued and loved. I wish all animals everywhere could have homes like that, but it still makes my heart sing to know that Goldilocks has found hers.

Re: Good News For One Feral

 

     So often rescue work with animals is filled with sad situations, so I rejoice when something goes unequivocally right!

      For literally months now, I have been trying to trap a small calico female who is the litter mate to two orange kittens I trapped ages ago. (They are semi-tame and are living with Christine, the founder of Feline Network). But this calico female always eluded me and, in the meantime, she has grown to the age where before long she'll be having kittens and making a bad situation much worse. Not only that, but this cat makes her hideway in an opening at the back of a small house in AG. The opening leads to

an area of plumbing fixtures of some type and an old bathtub, where she takes refuge. The owner of the house is adamant about not wanting the cat in that space. As soon as I trap her, the plan has been that I am to tell the homeowner and he will board up the entrance to the only shelter this little cat has ever known.

     So all this time that I've been trying to trap her, I've also been agonizing about what am I going to do with her. Normal procedure would have me return her to where I got her, but at that point she would have lost her 'home' and the property owner is not interested in feeding her. So I admit that, while I've continued to trap there, I've not been too unhappy when I continue to fail to catch the cat--since I leave out food for her and she has her makeshift shelter.

     Late last week, though, through a series of coincidences, I made contact with a woman who runs a feral cat sanctuary north of Atascadero. She was willing to take some semi-feral cats from Feline Network, but the person fostering the cats in question changed her mind for various reasons and that deal fell through. Then this morning--after so many attempts--I caught the calico! Immediately  I called the wonderful woman who runs the feral habitat. I will be meeting her up in Santa Marguerita this afternoon with the calico cat, now spayed with her shots, in a carrier to go to her new home at the habitat. It is a large, enclosed area where ferals live out their lives in peace. She will have ample shelter, food, and safety from predators--three options totally unavailable to her in her former circumstances.
      I am so grateful to the Universe for making this possible, for the timing that had the little cat walk into the trap at the one moment  when a new opportunity had actually opened up for her future. Thank God, she will never go hungry and she will have plenty of warm, hay-filled enclosures in which to cuddle with other cats. She will never have kittens, and predators, human or animal, will not bother her. At the moment, as she sits in the carrier on my porch recovering from her spaying procedure, I am sure she does not consider herself fortunate and would love nothing better than to go back to the only home she has ever known. If only she knew the bigger picture!

      I wonder how often I--how often all of us--are like the little cat, unaware of the bigger picture and oblivious to our incredible good fortune!

Re: On Grieving the Loss of Animals

     Recently I wrote about the loss of my 15-year-old cat Twinky, who died at home, with the help of her veterinarian, on October 25. Since Twinky's body was obviously failing, I guess I had thought the pain of losing her would somehow be mitigated by the relief of knowing she would not experience suffering. I'm thankful she had a peaceful and pain-free death, but that knowledge has done little to blunt the grief I feel at her loss.

      Twinky always sat at the end of the sofa in my living room. Every time I come in the front door, my eyes automatically go to the sofa--which is empty now--and I am reminded once again that she's gone. Every morning for the last four years I (or the petsitter if I was out of town) gave Twinky her medicine for high blood pressure; every month of so, I would call up the lab in Paso Robles and order another bottle of her meds. Now every day in which that familiar ritual is no longer enacted is another day in which she grows farther away from me. At "treat time" in the evenings, Twinky--who was blind--would be the first to appear in the kitchen, waiting expectantly for her portion of wet food. When I tossed out dry treats to the other cats, I would tuck two or three under Twinky's paw, so she could immediately find them.  At night, as soon as I got into bed and called her, Twinky would jump down off her spot on the sofa, come into the bedroom, hop up on the bed and stretch out against my back, with her head and paws in my hair. I still can't get used to sleeping on my side, knowing I will never again feel her furry warmth as she snuggles against me or hear the soothing music of her purr. I know that now I can rearrange the furniture with impunity or relocate the food and water bowls if I choose to, because my other cats are sighted. In her later years, Twinky found it difficult to squat and sometimes would end up peeing over the side of the litter box onto the floor. I got her a couple of special boxes with high sides and -- just in case--- placed them on top of a tarp covered with plastic trash bags so even if she missed, it was easy to clean up the spill. I took those away the other day--my other cats don't need them.

      Twinky always enjoyed going out into the fenced backyard, but sometimes she indicated she wanted to go out into the front yard by standing at the front door, looking expectant. I'd let her go outside, but always go out with her, since the front yard isn't fenced and she could easily wander out into the street. I was careful to never leave the side gate open, since she could have gone from the safety of the backyard out into the front unsupervised. Now the gate can be open all the time--it doesn't matter.

     When she was sighted, Twinky terrorized the other cats--she was alpha to the core. Even after she lost her sight, she continued to instill fear--I once saw her carefully locate the position of another cat by listening, turn slowly, then lunge with amazing accuracy at her intended prey. On another occasion, I came home to the horrifying sight of Twinky almost at the top of a twelve-foot high cat tree, looking around in some distress as she tried to figure out how to get down. I plucked her into my arms and put her back on the terra firma of the living room rug. To my vast relief, as far as I know, she never ventured up there again.

       I could write on and on reminiscing about Twinky, her adventures, her spirit, her tendency (probably due to her Siamese blood) to grumble and growl over anything that met with her disapproval--and those things were legion!

      But the point of this entry is to say that I have been unprepared for the depth of the grief I feel. It's a lethargy, a profound lack of appetite for dealing with the day to day demands of the world. Twinky shared my life for fifteen years. Now her life is over and a chapter of mine is irrevocably closed.

       In her mortality, of course, I see my own and that of every animal and every person that I love.

       Yet even as I mourn her, I  look across the living room and see the Little Dude cavorting in a paper grocery bag from Trader Joe's. He rolls around, sticks his head out, dives back in, crinkling and crumpling the bag, finding in its brown, oblong interior a toy more fascinating than any PetCo toy or catnip mouse. Everything is new and amazing and wonderful in Little Dude-Land, where Now is the only moment there ever was or will ever be.

       So I grieve for Twinky but I celebrate the gift that is the Little Dude. I wish that I could learn to live with his enthusiasm and only hope that I can die with a fraction of her equanimity and grace.