Second Chance for Pismo and Scooter!

    The Adopt-A-Pet over this past weekend was a resounding success, with several adoptions! Most exciting for me was that Scooter and Pismo, the two little tabby striped boys whom I fostered for a few weeks found their "Forever Home" for the second time. Not that losing their first one was the boys' fault at all. P and S are the most adorable little guys and true extroverts. Given a little time, I know they would have been rearranging the furniture in my living room and hanging from the chandelier (if I had one), but their first adoptive mother decided the risk from coyotes where she lived was too great and brought the boys back.

      Coyotes—the bugaboo of the kitty adoption process. There are various viewpoints on coyotes. I personally think the danger they pose is often overrated, although it is obviously a good idea to keep cats inside if at all possible. That being said, my own cats have indoor/outdoor privileges—which basically means they come and go as they choose, at least during daylight hours.

       In any case, though, Pismo and Scooter had to go through two more Adopt-A-pets before a wonderful family from Ojai—with a ten-year-old girl who loves cats—decided to adopt them. "They were stellar," reports the Feline Network volunteer who was at the Adopt-A-Pet and saw the boys being introduced to their new family. "They obviously wanted to go home with these folks, and they did!"

                      

The Sweetness of Shy Kitties

     Grey Beard and Tigger are two little boys born to a feral mom in Arroyo Grande. When rescuers from Feline Network found them and their siblings, the kittens were living amid the boards of a tumbled down fence. Their prospects for any kind of life at all were bleak. But they were trapped, spay/neutered, and sent to foster homes for loving care and socialization. Two of these guys, Grey Beard and Tigger, got adopted today at age 14 weeks. They are beautiful boys, each one several shades of grey overlaid with intricate black stripes. Grey Beard, when he was found, had a serious eye infection and it was thought he would probably lose his eye—thus caregiver Anna decided to give him a pirate's name as befitting a one-eyed adventurer.  Miraculously, however, the eye healed. Now Grey Beard can see just fine, although he hung onto his swashbuckling name.

 

        But Grey Beard, Tigger, and their sibs are still feral born kitties. They don't hiss or spit or bite, but they are shy souls, to whom the noisy and chaotic world of humans is always just a little bit intimidating. Today when Anna and I took the two boys to meet their new parents, we explained that these guys have a more introverted nature. They will be wonderful cuddly lap cats, but probably never 'tear the house down' as some more extroverted kittens will do.  In their new environment, Tigger immediately scooted under a bench; from there he very cautiously peeked out to meet the elderly chihuahua who will be 'big brother.'  Grey Beard curled up in his new mom's arms and stayed there, calm and content, but not in any great hurry to rush off and explore this new world.

 

      Tigger and Grey Beard's new mom and dad are delighted with their boys and couldn't be happier. It's a reminder that with a little patience, shy, quiet kitties can be adorable, lovable animal companions.

Pismo and Scooter Need A Home

   These two adorable little boys just love to play, to purr, and to cuddle! They are so sweet and fun to watch and get along great with other cats. Please help them find their forever home!

 

Pismo and Scooter Need A Home VIEW SLIDE SHOW DOWNLOAD ALL This album has 1 photo and will be available on SkyDrive until 10/25/2011.

The Great Skunk Rescue!

      Life is really strange. If someone had told me on Monday that on Tuesday morning at 7 a.m., I would be climbing into a hazmat suit and hardhat and signing a waiver to a local oil company promising not to sue them if I got injured, I would've said you were crazy. No way could such a thing happen!

     But it did.

     I've been helping the good folks at a local oil drilling site trap and neuter some feral cats. They set the traps at a location far up a dirt road, drop the cats off at a local vet; then I do the pick up and return the next morning. Only this particular morning, they had caught a skunk!  And not one of these big burly oil field guys wanted anything to do with such a harrowing mission, so they called me to come deal with the situation.

      Now I've trapped skunks before, and it's no fun. My heart always sinks a little when I peek under the towel covering the trap and see that little black and white critter with its tail up, getting ready to spray. It does stink, no two ways about it.

      The unfortunate part of this particular situation was one, whomever set the trap had not covered it with a towel (this is SO important because it keeps the cat/raccoon/skunk/whatever from being so frightened it injures itself) and two, they'd set the trap in a shed with only one door, so conceivably the skunk and I would be racing each other for a single exit. 

      Before I could undertake this hazardous task, however, I had to put on the helmet and the hazmat suit and sign the waiver. Actually the biggest danger was that I would trip and break my neck because the suit was designed for someone about a foot taller than I am and I kept stepping on the pant legs. Anyway, three of us drove out to this shed and there was the poor skunk, a young skunk from the looks of him, rattling around in the trap. I went in, threw the tarp I keep in my car over the trap, lifted the slider and ran back outside. The skunk, I was told, emerged later and scurried off into the woods.

      I was also told that one of the oil workers who observed all this remarked in amazement, "She just walked right in. She wasn't scared at all."  Wow, wish I could always impress people this easily!

      So the skunk was freed, the trapper was only slightly 'skunkified', and all ended happily.

      However, I must add there are two traps out at the same site tonight and I will be really, really happy if tomorrow morning I don't get a call that they've caught another skunk!

In Memory Of Jake

     I first met Jake about  a year ago, when I was trapping a feral colony living at a local trailer park. The kind-hearted managers of the park fed the colony, but were aware that they

would soon be overwhelmed if the cats continued to reproduce.  Jake was a big, beautiful Siamese Tom, whose people had abandoned him and who lived outside with the feral colony. He was one of the first ones to be neutered and returned. The trailer park managers clearly loved him very much and he would allow them to pet him, but he lived the life of a feral kitty.

      Two days ago, I got a call from Jake's 'mom'—let's call her Anne—she was obviously very upset and said she thought Jake had been hit by a car. His legs were smashed up and he had been missing for an entire week, during which time Anne and her husband – Bob, let's call him – searched for him. Now Jake was back and obviously badly injured. She asked me what they should do.

      Now IF I had been thinking more clearly, IF I could do it over again, I guess the obvious response would be this: take him immediately to your vet. If you don't have a vet, I can recommend one. But I didn't think that clearly. I could hear Jake crying in the background. Somehow I assumed they didn't have a carrier for him, although they hadn't said this. Never-the-less, I told them I'd be over at once with a carrier. I went into high alert, that place I go when an animal emergency arises. Nothing mattered but to get Jake to the doctor. I called my own vet, and got the okay to bring Jake in. I arrived at the park and found Jake already in a carrier, ready to go.

       As I walked out with Jake in the carrier,—this part breaks my heart—Bob put his hand on my shoulder and said "God bless you."

       At the clinic, the vet came out and sat with me after examining Jake. He told me Jake had broken legs and a broken pelvis and a deep infection in the wounds. He was in shock. I asked if he was "salvageable." The vet replied that he would need at least one operation, then visits to a specialist followed by months of rehabilitation—indoors.  I told the vet Jake was an outdoor cat. The vet recommended euthanasia.

       I wanted Bob and Anne to hear this from the vet himself, so I called them at once. They didn't pick up. I left a message explaining the situation, saying to please call back immediately.  I asked the vet if he could keep Jake until I heard from Anne and Bob. Then I headed off to pick up a pair of cats I'd caught the night before, who'd been neutered, and were awaiting pick up. On the way back, I called Bob and Anne again and again got their machine. I was feeling frantic. Jake was waiting. Somewhere in the urgency of the moment, I decided my priorities were wrong—this was about Jake, not about Bob and Anne. I called one more time. I got the answering machine. I explained that since I hadn't heard from them, I was going to go ahead and give permission to have Jake euthanized.

       At the time, it seemed like the right, the compassionate, decision. Doesn't it always?

       Later that morning I got calls from both Bob and Anne. Anne sounded distraught, she'd called the vet too late, and Jake was gone. She asked me if it was "about the money" and I told her no, we hadn't talked of money at all, we're just talked about Jake's injuries.  I offered to have the vet talk with her, but she said what for, Jake was gone.

       I felt devastated. As if I'd willfully murdered Jake. I thought of a hundred what's if's and why didn't I's. When I couldn't reach Bob and Anne, why didn't I drive back to the trailer park and look for them? I could have found them. I know they were there. But I didn't. Somehow I took the fact that I couldn't reach them on the phone for proof that this situation was now in my hands. And how had it come to be 'in my hands?' I didn't know. Why hadn't one of them come with me to the vet? I didn't know. All I knew was that Jake was dead and I had made that decision when maybe it wasn't mine to make. And yet I know Jake was in pain. I know the vet told me euthanasia was the kindest choice.

       A lot of stuff comes up for me where animals are concerned. I have watched people weep over the death of parents and felt little beyond polite sympathy for their pain.  I get it, but on a deeper level, because I've never felt that kind of love for a parent, no, I don't really 'get' it. I just kind of pretend that I do. But when someone cries over the loss of an animal, it brings up the pain of every cat and dog I've ever lost and all the dread and terror of losses that are sure to come, a tsunami of grief that inundates me so completely I feel like I'm drowning in it. The suffering clogs my throat, and I can't breathe.

       I called the vet, explained the situation, and he called Bob and Anne. I hope whatever he said to them mitigated their pain, but I doubt it. I know if I ever handed one of my cats off to another person and somehow it evolved that that was the last time I saw my cat alive, I would be grief-stricken beyond words. But I can't imagine doing that. I can't imagine not going with the person to the vet. I can't imagine not being glued to my phone. I can't imagine...

       In the end, of course, the only one that's important in this story is Jake. Jake got hit by a car and was terribly injured and died in as humane a manner as possible under the circumstances, and I gave the go-ahead for his death.  And I can't ask for his understanding or for his forgiveness. And I have to live with that.