Until just last year, December and January were slow in Litquake land. Now there is almost no time for our “long winter’s nap” in festival land: we are off and running at a brisk pace.
And in cat-land, business is sadly all too brisk. The farm south of town that has yielded nearly dozen kittens is now down to very few, because of the incredible team effort of the rescue ladies of the coast. We’ve trapped in batches, getting the kittens their shots, their “fixing” surgeries, foster and sometimes permanent homes. It was almost becoming a routine – as routine as the chaotic world of cat rescue can ever be.
Then this week, a wee curve ball.
This summer, a beautiful young tuxedo-wearing guy showed up behind the Post Office. He was a sweetie: approachable and clear-eyed and unafraid. The name Robbie popped to mind, which was odd since that’s my nephew’s name. But it stuck.
When I brought a trap around to catch him, he disappeared, and I did not see Robbie again… until this week. There he was, the same kitty, but instead of looking six months older, he looked more like ten years older, thanks to dreadful scabs on his head and chin, and eyes that were no longer bright and innocent, but carried the pain of his tough existence and fragile health. It broke my heart.
I trapped him, and had him fixed and medically attended to, with antibiotics, skin scraping and more. By the time I got him safely ensconced in a big dog crate upstairs, he was hating me pretty good, growling and hissing. That only lasted a full day; by this morning he was chirping hello, eating food off my long wooden spoon, and looking at me square in the eyes with trust. I won’t rush him by trying to pet him – that will wait a couple of days. But again I was reminded of the remarkable resilience of cats: that just two days after I subjected him to the violence and humiliation of trapping and neutering, he is accepting my gaze and moving toward me in a tentative attempt to bond. Seeing his baby steps toward human affection bring tears to my eyes.
These are critical days, during which Robbie’s future remains uncertain. I have a pretty good sense of when a feral cat can be “turned” and I believe he could be – at least to the degree that he might make a nice barn cat. For now, I’m keeping him warm and fed, and working on restoring his health. I’ll let you know how it goes.
St. Francis, help guide me in seeing this sweet fellow off to a more promising future, one in which he might even have love for the first time in his life. We all deserve it.