Jane Ganahl

Six weeks ago I stared into Pokey’s eyes when he once again refused food, and told him sternly, “This is not gonna happen. You will not die.”

As if demanding this of a very sick cat, who was not only FIV-positive cat but had miraculously lived to 20, would work. It didn’t. After 13 lovely years as commander-in-chief of my home, the old warrior finally gave me the unmistakeable message that he was ready to move on. Unable to find a vet to come to my home, I took him to my favorite vet in town and held him close while we both let him go. It was to be the day I departed on a long-awaited summer vacation to the Sierras. I cried all the way to Tahoe.

When I got back a week later, I got the word that a cat I’d been feeding for 4-5 years under the Main Street Bridge, Lafcadio, had been hit and killed by a car. Reeling, I set up my altar – something I have found comforting for all cats that pass. I included the box of Pokey’s ashes, his photo, his sweater, some beautiful flowers and candles… and a photo of Lafcadio as well.

‘Cadio under the bridge.

Still in deep sadness, I got an SOS call: a mama cat wandering around a neighborhood, nursing seven (!) kittens in backyards. I told my wonderful rescue friends it was too soon for me to ask more of my heart. And I would help with the rescue but it would be a short term TNR (Trap-Neuter-Return) job for mama, and I would need to find foster homes for the kittens after they were trapped. But I could not do a long-term foster – I just couldn’t handle the challenge.

The trapping went smoothly: mama Beatrice (the name the neighbors had given her) came home with me and was spayed the next day, while the kittens were disbursed in groups to foster homes.

But the minute Beatrice – a beguiling melange of colors from orange to black to white – woke up from surgery, she looked into my eyes with the sweetest gaze, and rubbed up against the side of the dog crate hungry for attention. My heart sank. Oh no, I thought – this is a very lovely, social kitty, not a TNR. I’ll keep her a few more days in the crate and see how she does. And then I’ll find her a home. But she is NOT going upstairs.

Going upstairs, from garage to half-bath as a first step of moving indoors, and from there to the guest bedroom where there is more space, is a routine reserved for long-term fosters. And that was not going to be this. Not this time. Every time I passed the altar I’d made, I was reminded of the cost of closeness.

Then, Beatrice plummeted. Refusing food, lethargic, warm to the touch, with rampant diarrhea. I grudgingly moved her to my half-bathroom so I could better monitor her (but only for a few days! I told myself). But even in more comfortable quarters, her eyes told me she felt miserable.

I weighed Bea. She had lost a full pound since we trapped her – and she was scary-thin to begin with. I was looking at the real possibility of losing her. And of course by then her sweetness had sucker-punched my heart and I was desperate to reverse the course.

“This is not gonna happen,” I tried again, gently petting her head. “You will not die.” I whisked her away to the vet, where she spent two days undergoing tests and getting fluids. When tests for major/fatal diseases proved negative, the only assumption I could make was that perhaps Bea had been exposed to toxins during her life prowling backyards.

“I THINK she should be okay,” the vet told me, “with antibiotics, special food for the diarrhea, plenty of rest and…”

I knew what was coming. “TIME.”

Argh. I was so not ready for another life-and-death project. But sometimes the universe doesn’t give a crap about your readiness. Bea needed me, and Pokey would want me to keep on opening my heart. “Okay,” I said softly, surrendering, petting her drooping head. “It’s time to move upstairs.”

Feeling suddenly peaceful, I turned to the altar for Pokey and Lafcadio. It was time to take it down. And fix up the bedroom for a new guest.

Thanks, St. Francis, for refilling my well when it was bone-dry.

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Post Script: After two weeks of rehab, Beatrice has gained 3 pounds (!), the light has returned to her eyes, and her personality (playful, affectionate, silly) has come to the fore. She makes biscuits as soon as you talk to her! She still grapples with diarrhea but when that is cleared up, I’ll be on the hunt for a forever home for this adorable monkey. Stay tuned.

Regular readers of this blog will know that in recent years, the only cats I took in were the “unadoptables.” Street cats that were too shy, too badly injured, too sick, or too OLD to relocate once I had eased them into the indoor life. The last six cats I took in were all from the Land of Broken Toys.

There was Big Mike, whose predator-shredded leg (and resulting surgical costs) were the reasons we started a nonprofit. Ginger was wandering in a parking lot, near death from mouth cancer that miraculously cleared up after she was given months to live. And Wyatt, an elegant old gentleman. was found wandering and near death from starvation after being abandoned. They all thrived in my care for a while, and each had a good death, one per year, in 2020, 2021, 2022, breaking my heart each time.

Since then the only occupants of my home and heart, in addition to my two still-living street cats, were transients: kittens I socialized and adopted out, abandoned cats I found homes for, TNRs who spent a night or two and were released. And I was committed to keeping it this way. At my age, I’m trying to simplify/downsize. And to quote MYSELF from six months ago: “I can’t handle a third cat – not with my two seniors needing so much TLC.”

HA! Be careful what you (don’t) wish for.

I wrote that in my blog when weighing what to do about the latest cat abandoned on the farm – whom I’d given the moniker Biscuit because she was so happy to be held that she kneaded the air.

First she spent a couple of days with the farm owner’s wife. But she could only keep her briefly, with family arriving for Christmas. When I received her from the farmer’s wife, the hands that passed the carrier to me were nicked with small cuts. “She’s a sweetheart, but a little… uh…. rambunctious,” she said.

I found a second foster to take her during the holidays. By the end of her two-week stint there, the foster was donning ski pants to go into Biscuit’s bedroom, in case Biscuit lunged at her legs.

An elderly woman asked to adopt her and I made the wrong decision to let it happen. (Wrong, because the moment I dropped her off, I had major misgivings – worried Biscuit’s antics would bring a bookshelf down on her new owner’s fragile head.) This time, Biscuit didn’t act out roughly, but she hid under the bed. For two days. And the woman’s cat hated her. It was miserable for all. There was no choice but to take her back and try to train this adorable monster to be socially acceptable.

It’s only temporary, I told myself. I don’t need a third cat.

I took her the vet, to try and get a handle on her never-ending sniffles. It was there I learned she was likely a combination of Abyssinian and tortoiseshell breeds – a new one on me. That, the vet told me, was partially responsible for her occasional aggression and complete rambunctiousness. And also her neediness; in just a week, she had become my shadow, following me everywhere, swatting at my ankles if I wasn’t walking fast enough. I renamed her Abby for her proud – and pugnacious – lineage.

It took a while to adjust to Abby’s rhythms – even longer to get used to her “appetite for destruction.” No pens were safe on the desk, plants on high shelves plummeted, sneak attacks on Pokey and Skeeter were daily occurrences, often when they were using the litter box. Pokey was mystified why she could be cuddling with him one minute, chewing on him the next. But she seemingly couldn’t help herself.

Easier to curb were her impulses to bite my hands and play too hard. She was so desperate for attention that all I had to do was say a sharp “no!” and take my hand away, which would leave her crestfallen. A smart little monster, she learned quickly. And it broke my heart that whoever her first family was, they didn’t know how to break her of her habits, and abandoned her.

In the course of the months of retraining, I of course fell in love, and she with me. She now perches behind me on my armchair, and if I let her, will destroy my personal space when I sleep by sneaking onto my pillow. She chirps hello in every time I walk in the door, and when I first wake up. And life’s been tough lately – I hunger for those check-ins.

Still, I kept talking about adopting her out… until a moment in recent weeks when I was re-making my list of rescue to-do’s. I saw the line I’d been looking at since January: “Abby home?” it read.

I turned to her, as she slumbered by my shoulder. I kissed her nose and she stretched luxuriously and purred.

“Who am I kidding?” I sighed. “You ARE home.” I crossed the line out.

I may not have wanted her at first, but we all need love – and it will always change my mind.

There have been many times since starting this rescue that I’ve wanted to throw in the towel and say I quit — my heart can’t take it anymore. Those times have never been about the awfulness or evil of cats. Even the most challenging ones are poignant to me in their own ways. Even the one who stabbed my hand, nearly sending me to the ER, had a story I could understand. He was terrified, I told myself, and thought I was going to hurt him.

Humans, on the other hand… I have seen with my own eyes the results of their selfishness and even cruelty to animals. Over and over and over again. They see a hungry or lost pet and turn a blind eye. They take their pets to shelters when they no longer provide a source of amusement. Or they drive somewhere, open their car door, and just put them out.

Four cats in six months have been dumped at the farm where I feed. Three have been adopted by new people, and one of them is now my foster, until I can decide whether she’s truly adoptable. (Boisterously hyper, Abby understandably has anxiety issues to work through.) When I look in her sweet eyes I wonder WHO could have done this to her, and why the F.

Because I’m at the age where I’m trying hard to practice compassion, I try to understand what the abandoners’ story might be. Perhaps the abandonment was done because they were seriously broke and could not even feed themselves, let alone a cat. Perhaps the cat was ill (as has happened several times) and vet bills would be impossibly high. Perhaps when the car door opened, a little girl was sobbing in the back seat, begging her parents not to do this. Perhaps the parents were crying too. So I try, I really try, to not vilify those whose actions cause harm and pain to animals, and tons of work for me.

But I ran out of any shred of understanding last weekend, when a kitten was discovered next to a busy road, by one of our wonderful volunteers. She was right out in the open, so not in a place where a mama would have given birth. She was dumped there. The volunteer scooped her up and took her home.

Because she was having trouble breathing, the next day she was rushed to a vet. Pneumonia, the vet diagnosed. She is dying. The volunteer held her while they did the kindest thing they knew how to do. Abandoned in life, she was shown love and commitment in her final moments, and I’m grateful for that.

But the incident felt like something of a last straw for me. It broke my heart, yes, but it put me in a rage. When I got the word, I was driving home from my daughter’s home in Santa Cruz, about an hour away down the Coast Highway. I was in angry tears and questioning aloud whether I had it in me to continue hearing these stories, which only served to make me lose my last remaining shred of faith in the human race.

And then something happened on the road ahead of me. Traffic was moving fast at 50-60 mph, but I saw car far ahead, and then a second, swerve to the right, come to a full stop and throw on their emergency flashers. Oh no, I thought, someone hit a deer?

I watched two young men climb out of the stopped vehicles. One of them turned to oncoming traffic and started waving frantically to stop. I watched anxiously in my rearview mirror as I slowed and stopped, hoping the people behind me would see what was happening and not plow into me. And then I saw the first young man begin walking quickly, his arms low to the ground as he moved in a puzzling serpentine pattern. When he stood up, I understood what was happening: a tiny dog – maybe a Shih Tzu? – was frantically running around on the highway, clearly lost.

I jumped out of my car and joined in the effort to get the little dog to calm down long enough for one of us to grab him, but each lunge by one of his would-be rescuers was met by him moving further away. Before I knew it, seven or eight cars full of people had stopped and easily 12 people were now trying to save the tiny pooch — waving their arms, tapping their thighs, beckoning to him. I stood and looked around me at the growing crowd. Oh my god, I thought. This is amazing.

Happily, just as we were getting close to grabbing him, a car drove up and a woman leapt out, calling his name. He ran to her and she burst into tears. Said he had dug a hole in his yard and gotten out. She didn’t thank us, but her joy was payment.

When I got to Pigeon Point Lighthouse – one my favorite vistas – I pulled over to think about the day’s events. The Universe isn’t usually so obvious with its lessons, swooping in to renew my faith in humankind literally before I’d even finished writing us off. But I was grateful that it didn’t let me wallow in anger and hatred too long. Life’s too short, and there are too many worthy creatures who need my help.

And by that, I mean humans.

Nature – AKA the goddess of all felines – has been historically kind to me. She has mostly thrown one urgent matter at a time in my direction, so that I never felt like there was something I couldn’t handle. I’d get a litter of kittens adopted out and THEN stumble on a terribly injured cat needing urgent care. And the emails and texts from strangers needing help would dribble in, in a manageable way.

But something has shifted since Maggie died (see previous) and Mother Nature has all but buried me in urgent to-do’s. Learning the delicate art of triage has been foisted upon me, and it’s sink or swim time. I’m mostly swimming – navigating the rough waters of rescue – with the occasional major fail included to keep me humble.

The current list is long:
– a new, possibly abandoned cat at the farm needing to be scooped up and brought to a vet as she looks unwell.
– finding a forever home for Biscuit, the LAST cat dumped at the farm, who’s been brightening my home the last several weeks… or settling for another foster situation.
– catching the remaining intact cats at the senior center – finishing the job that Maggie started.
– working on helping Figgy, one of the cats Maggie fed for years, who is failing from probable kidney disease.
– creating shelters for the cats under the bridge, in hopes they’ll actually use them and not succumb to the bitter cold we’re experiencing right now.

There’s more but you get the general idea. So the plate is full. And even so, more was added earlier this week – the kind of need that pushed everything else aside in the urgent care unit of my life.

A maintenance worker discovered a litter of seven (!) kittens born in a city-owned shed down by the open space. He kindly scooped them up, put them in a box with a blanket in the same location, and reached out to me.

The question was: should we move them into foster care where they would be safe? But seeing that they were only a week or so old, with their eyes just beginning to open, I knew it would require bottle feeders, and since I have zero talent in that area, and our volunteers are already stretched thin, I opted to leave them there another night and put food out for mama to keep her coming back.

That was probably a mistake.

We were dismayed on our next check to find three of the kittens missing along with mama, who had undoubtedly moved them. And then it was crisis time. Every other concern went out the window, in the interest of scrambling to keep these babies alive. I raced from store to store for newborn bottles, formula, heating pads. And for 24 hours I was their fumbling nursemaid, attempting to jam the nipples into their unhappy mouths every 3-4 hours, including during the night. And then the cavalry arrived in the form of a rescue angel who specialized in orphaned kittens. I packed them up and drove them half an hour to her, where they are thriving three days later. Cute little stinkers!!

But their missing siblings? I’d say the odds they’ll survive in the wild open space are slim to none. And it crushes me. (A perfectionist will second-guess themselves into a tizzy, and I’m no exception.)

This week, I made another decision based on anxiousness about a lack of forever homes – and again it proved to be the wrong one. (The lesson from the universe seems to be that I need to trust and relax – neither of which comes easy to me.) An elderly woman in our circle said she was interested in my foster kitty, Biscuit. I knew she was 85, but thought it’s okay – she can handle Biscuit, a sweet live-wire of a cat, since she has experience.

She couldn’t.

That became clear for reasons I won’t go into, but I foresaw disaster – either they’d leave the door open and Biscuit would escape, or kitty would do her acrobatic shelf-climbing thing and send books and picture frames hailing down on the head of a senior citizen.

Smarting from my too-hasty decision on the kittens – one I couldn’t roll back – I decided I would change course here while I still could and ask for Biscuit back. It turns out I didn’t need to! Before I could rehearse that awkward conversation, the caretaker reached out and said she didn’t think it was going to work out – that her cat didn’t like Biscuit! (Thank you, Mother Nature, for having my back this time.) So I went and picked her up today and she is enjoying life again chez moi – even keeping me company as I write this.

I can’t handle a third cat – not with my two seniors needing so much TLC. So it’s back to square one finding Biscuit a home. But that task will get shuffled a bit further back on the triage list. As long as she’s okay and happy, I can push something else to the top of the list. Tomorrow I’ll take a carrier to the farm to get the frail new kitty (granddaughter’s suggested name is Malia) used to the idea of being spirited away to the vet.

One thing – one urgent thing – at a time, and it will work out.

I’ve been grappling for almost a month with how to frame a recent enormous loss. I’m used to writing about heartbreak brought by the passing of a feline, but never thought I’d be writing about Maggie’s death. My rescue partner for almost 10 years, I thought we’d work side by side long into the future. But her unexpected passing on Oct. 31, at only 74, abruptly changed everything.

Since then I’ve been consumed with reinventing Coastside Feral Care with only me at the helm – a daunting task – and with drafting volunteers to help me keep driving her mission forward. I’ve seen the best of humankind in recent weeks as helpers and friends have stepped forward, offering to help do morning feedings, finish the trapping project she’d started, buy food, take over our accounting, and so much more.

When people ask what kind of person Maggie was, I tell them how she insisted on buying treats with her own money for the many homeless cats she fed every morning. Why? I asked her. “Because it makes them happy!” she smiled.

I’ll post more soon when the wagons have circled tightly, but in the meantime, here’s a photo of my partner and friend, boasting that amazing smile and eccentric style that she wore every morning, rain or shine, because she was all about the love.

My very funny nephew has a very funny t-shirt that features an adorable kitten on the chest, with the caption:

KITTEN DREAMS OF MURDER ALL DAY

Where I always thought it was funny/weird, it never made much sense. Why, kittens are cuddly, sweet, precious little beings! Or so I thought until now.

Every summer, it seems, I respond to emergencies and find myself fostering and adopting out a passel of new cuties. Some efforts have gone super smoothly, but most have had major complications. Last summer, it was the heartbreak of two deaths from “kitten fade.” The summer before, the wiley babies eluded my traps so successfully I had to make umpteen trips to the harbor to catch them all piecemeal.

This summer, I was alerted to a quartet of babies living under a shed in the equipment yard of produce growers. I was enchanted by their sweet, big-eyed adorableness, and estimated they were only about 4-5 weeks old.

It only took a few tries to get mama and four babies; these same two were the last to be trapped.

But I learned right away that these two were… it must be said… evil monsters. Don’t be deceived by their big-eyed adorableness! They are a two-kitten wrecking crew.

I am not kidding about this. On day one, they leapt up to an impossibly high shelf in the half-bath where they were confined. It knocked down a very heavy conch shell, which landed on the top of the toilet, shattering the lid. Kittens 1, humans 0.

I moved them quickly to my walk-in closet… where they immediately used their claws to climb up my hanging clothes so they could reach the high shelf reserved for Crap I Never Wear, destroying a few nice items in the process. (Kittens 2, humans 0.) Getting them down from there was life-threatening; rose-pruning gloves were used. And all clothes were relocated.

In the following weeks, the other two kittens – the nonmonsters – learned quickly to not only enjoy the free lunch I put out for them several times a day, but the touch of my hand. They were adopted recently and are purring up a storm in new homes. But these two destructo-kittens – spotted tabby boy is Sage, Russian Blue girl is Zinnia – are going to take more time. Maybe much more.

I moved them to the guest bathroom and set up an elaborate folding gate situation that is about seven feet tall. Even so, Sage figured out how to scale it. God knows how long he was up there before I discovered him. He’d lost his nerve and I had to push a table below for him to jump down in stages. (Kittens 3, humans 0.)

Thankfully the experience scared him enough that now they don’t try to escape that way. And I can keep them confined in an area where I can reach them at any time – which is what needs to be done to socialize feral kittens. Not that it does a whole lot of good! Where I can now sneak up on them while they’re relaxing, the second they wake up, it’s a chorus of hard-eyes-and-hisses, as if I’m the monster and not them. (Kittens 4, humans 0.)

Adhering to the time-tested rule of socializing, I began giving them just a little food, several times a day – really, almost hourly – so they would have to deal with me, and maybe even look forward to seeing me, even if it was the way prisoners look forward to seeing the meal cart creaking down the hall.

It’s been about a week of this and there have been times when I’ve nearly been in tears at their lack of progress. I’ve looked them squarely in their angry eyes and told them, “you will not win this. I have never released a KITTEN to the wild, and this is not going to be the first time.” And still I wondered if I have the skills required to turn them.

And then…

Today I found them sleeping under the sink, in their preferred hiding place. I talked to them soothingly, and to my surprise they did not rear back or hiss, but looked at me with – god help me – soft, sweet eyes. And I touched them gently. And they didn’t freak out. And with that, I melted. Kittens 4, humans 1.

Hey. it’s a start!

And okay, they’re not monsters – just at the mercy of their DNA, which probably goes back generations of ferals. And I will win them over, make them purr, and want to sit on my lap. And then I’ll tell them goodbye when someone wonderful adopts them. Because it’s what’s right for them. And because it’s what I do. Thanks, St. Francis, for the reminder.

Shannon is with me on my morning rounds. Opening the trunk to help me dish canned food into plastic bowls, she observes a new canister. “Why are there goldfish crackers in your trunk?” she asks.

I tell her it’s for my new friend, Robinson the crow. (The Robinson brothers were core of the Black Crowes, one of my favorite bands.) Right on cue, he swoops down, a symphony of flapping wings and guttural caws, and lands in front of my car, perching on a fencepost. She gasps at his beauty – the thick beak, sharp eyes and shining black feathers – and giggles at his clucking hello. But when I ask her if she wants to help me give him a snack, she freezes. “He could hurt me!” she murmurs, wrapping her five-year-old arms around her slim shoulders.

I laugh. “Come on,” I told her. “He is just as sweet as a cat. Just… different.”

Indeed, I’ve been on a steep learning curve since Robinson appeared. Crows and ravens are simply amazing: one of the smartest birds in the world, they are one of the only four species (including humans) who can craft tools. They have been observed using cars in traffic to crack nuts, by laying them on the road at the red light and waiting for a car to roll over them! They mate for life – something most humans can’t succeed in. Their sideways hippity-hop is comically endearing. And they remember human faces – hectoring people they don’t like and pursuing a bond with those they do. Lucky me, I’m one.

Just a week or so after I first interacted with Robinson across the street, he discovered where I live! I heard his guttural caw-caw outside, opened the screen door to my deck and there he was on the roof looking down at me. Since then, I’ve found him on my railing, just a few feet from me, and to reward him I put out some stale Cheerios, which he gulped like they were candy, all the while observing me with head cocked.

I think he is beautiful, and although he has yet to deliver a shiny trinket to me (something many crows do) our bond is becoming profound.

A short while ago there was talk about recent proposed law in my town that would ban feeding both crows and cats – solely because of an argument between neighbors. One fed crows and the other fed cats… and both hated the other species. There have also been suggestions on neighborhood websites that ferals be exterminated… by people who love songbirds passionately. And of course there is the long-standing competition over which is better, dogs or cats?

None of it makes sense to me. If you love an animal – and take it deeply into your heart – how could you love its species but despise another? Aren’t animals all related in their innocence and lack of cruelty that marks humans as the most flawed of species? And aren’t we all interconnected? 

Admittedly, this belief has been tested in the past when misfortune has befallen my strays. Twice I’ve found the cadavers of cats that I had just fed the day before – cats I loved, if from a distance – that had clearly been the target of a predator like a coyote or mountain lion. I’ll never forget being in angry tears about one of these occurrences, and told my friend Carrie I hoped they’d catch and at least deport to the hills whichever predator did this. But Carrie, a longtime rescue guru of mine, asked if I didn’t feel a bit better about it knowing that whatever large mammal killed my cat needed food, too? And was perhaps even a mama looking to feed her young?

That brought it home to me. No mountain lion or coyote is cruel or hunts for sport. I needed to try and love and find compassion for them, even if their hunting upset me and my life. And the truth is, if I had seen that mountain lion strolling down the street I’d been awed by its magnificence. It was only because it hurt me indirectly that I wanted it punished, and that’s not fair. If you love animals you have to accept their primal nature.

Take Robinson. His occasional arrival on my deck causes the songbirds to scatter in a panic away from my feeder, though I’ve never seen him attack one. I suppose he could, and I would hate it if he hurt a songbird, but I would forgive and love him just the same. It’s just a crow being a crow.

Shannon grabs a fistful of goldfish crackers – his favorite – and tosses them on the sidewalk. She squeals with delight as Robinson swoops down to within a few feet of her, and begins to peck away. I don’t take her to church and tread lightly on lecturing about life lessons, but I’m pleased that she is learning that animals – all animals – are worthy of respect.

This morning I said goodbye to Pokey as I usually do, with a hug and a kiss on top of his head as he lay in repose on my armchair. He usually responds with a sleepy purr, but today his chronic upper respiratory congestion flared, and he let loose a hacking sneeze and cough. Alarmed, I soothed him until his fit faded, and then left on my feeding rounds. Then I went to the grocery store where I ran into and chatted with a friend. 

And when I came home, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. There, on my forehead, was a small colored streak. I leaned in closely and touched it. The brownish spot was crusty and flaked off. Then I realized what had happened. I had been walking around in public with cat snot on my forehead. 

In my younger years, when I was far more vain and preoccupied with my looks, I would have shrieked and freaked. But at this age… meh. I just sighed. And looked over at Pokey, who was studying my expression curiously. “It’s a good thing I love you, buddy,” I chuckled. 

When you really love a cat, he can adorn you with mucus on your forehead and you don’t get mad – unless it’s at yourself for not checking the mirror more often. 

When you really love a cat, rather than get upset when you’re awakened by the snoring of Skeeter, whose chronic rhinitis can make her sound like a tiny donkey braying, you think it’s adorable. 

When you really love a cat, even when he’s pugnacious with a capital P, as was the late, great Iggy Pop, you don’t think he’s evil or a jerk, but just lively and funny. (Others in my family definitely felt otherwise. 😉

And I’ve learned that you can STILL love a cat, even when it won’t let you come close enough to touch. 

When you love a stray cat, even though you’re late to a work meeting, you stay a bit longer to make sure the new guy at the farm gets his share, because the old dowager mama cat smacks him around when she’s in a cranky mood, and his response, as a “zeta cat,” is to run and hide, and your heart goes out to him because you’ve been in his situation before. So you move his dish closer to him, and talk to him sweetly until he loses his fear and comes back out. 

And when you really love a stray cat, you stand like a crazy person on a bridge in the worst rain the area has seen in decades, calling the names of the two you feed who live beneath it, Lafcadio and Silver, fretting that they were washed away in the raging torrent.

You shed tears of worry when they don’t come, and tears of gratitude when they show up two days later. 

Just yesterday I saw a deeply moving example of what happens when you really love a cat. A woman who had just lost her 9-year-old cat to cancer offered Kitten’s toys, food and bed to me, so some other cat could benefit from her loss. She was putting on a brave face, but as she extended her arm to hand me Kitten’s pillow-bed, she retracted it again, and held it close. Then she lifted it to her face, so she could take a last whiff of Kitten’s sweet scent, before handing it to me in tears.

I felt her pain and understood her selflessness. Because when you really, really REALLY love a cat, even though you know he might have another week left of life, and you know you will miss him so terribly when he dies that it takes your breath away, you let him go. This one, my Wyatt, still purred slightly, but had lost the ability to eat and drink, or climb the stairs. And even though I was deeply attached to him, when you really love a cat, you make that phone call so he won’t suffer anymore, and you take him in and hold him tenderly while he slips away. And you make a makeshift altar with his photo, and flowers and eventually his ashes, perhaps concerned that you will forget him otherwise.

Which is silly because you really loved him, and won’t forget.

Of all the cats I feed in the morning, Eddie is the biggest crowd-pleaser. He trots out from his shelter behind the Post Office, crosses the parking lot – often dodging mail delivery vans – and dips under the fence to join me in the grassy area just behind it. He gets plenty of attention from people during the day, so he’s used to be petted and loved on.

Lately, he’s even taken to jumping onto my car trunk when I’ve been fixing his morning meal. This has frequently caught the attention of passers-by. This week, a woman paused to watch him and admire the agility of his portly frame.

“He’s so beautiful!” she breathed. “Is he yours?”

I chuckled. “No, he’s not mine. But I am his.”

She looked politely perplexed, and walked on.

I think most people think of animals as things or objects to possess. And those things better gratify them or… what’s the point of having one? They are easily disposable. This justifies everything from factory farming to the number of people who return animals to adoption agencies when they aren’t “friendly enough” or develop problems, as every elderly mammal must.

I know better than to believe in the law of reciprocity – or let’s say I’ve been schooled in this matter since starting my rescue work a decade ago. Feeling possessive is fruitless, and frustrating. Especially with cats, who will love you when they’re damn good and ready. And even if they do love you – and claim you as their human – you might never get much in return for your devotion.

Every animal is as different as every human. I’ve had dozens of cats in my life – some of whom are immediately accessible and affectionate. Others, like my Skeeter, have feral roots so deep she will probably never sit on my lap. (After trapping her years ago, she was diagnosed with chronic rhinitis; her illness made me decide not tot put her back outside where a full-blown lung infection would kill her.) So I look for smaller hints of reciprocity: the small purr when I chufff her neck fur, which she seems to like. The blink of her eyes and the small chirp of hello in the morning. I give her space and she politely tolerates me. She is not mine but I am hers.

I don’t think you can be a true animal lover and not accept this truth. I’ve only ever been angry with a few adopters, but the most recent time was the most egregious. A man adopted a street cat who seemed like a total sweetie, though at the time I told him to go slow and not expect too much of a response at first. He immediately started petting him, and Charlie let him know it was too soon with a strong swat. And rather than giving him space, the new owner kept at it, resulting in predictable escalation of Charlie’s defensive behavior. After just two months, he called me: he’d had enough. Charlie would have to go.

I lucked out and learned of a woman on Skyline who loved orange tabbies and would take Charlie in. I warned her about him, and she said she would respect his boundaries and go slowly. Within a week he was purring on her lap.

I guess it’s all about respect. And the importance of humans being able to curb our incessant need for affection and reciprocity.

Not that I’m good at being detached and respectful 100% of the time. If I were, I’d be more gracious at loving and letting go.

The vet told me last week that my beloved Wyatt, rescue of the last 10 months and a feline soulmate if ever there was one, has maybe two more months to live, as his skin cancer is progressing rapidly. He has always been resistant to my attempts at cuddling; so it is with many animals that have been traumatized or mistreated. And he still is, somewhat – requiring me to sneak up and hug him from behind. But now when I do, I feel that little bit of relaxation, that slow and happy rumble, and sometimes even a lift of the head to meet my embrace. In those few moments, he lets me claim him, and even tolerates the tears that drip on his head. But it’s always on his terms – and that’s okay with me.

He is not mine, but I am his.

Day two – life in a bathroom

This is a lot better than where I was born just a few weeks ago – crouched in the dirt underneath a deck. I’m here because this human woman started putting food out for all uf us – my three brothers and one sister and my mother, who is so wild. But we didn’t understand what traps were and we went right in them. And here we are. It’s not terrible but my siblings are terrified. Me? I’m not scared of anything, because you don’t get anything in life by being afraid, and life is short, you know? At least mine will be. This woman doesn’t know that yet. 

Day four – “these two are so small!” 

The animal doctor came today and gave us all our kitten shots. She was cool about it but I could tell that she noticed my brother and I are so much smaller than the other three. She even wondered if we were from a different family of cats, because the others were so much bigger. But we were from the same mama – we were just born… different. With a few problems. 

This woman decided on names for us! They are all in a book that she loved – something called Harry Potter. My little brother with the white chest is Harry, my sister with the beautiful brown, gold and black fur is Hermione, my biggest brother with the orange fur is Weasley, and my big, fluffy grey brother is Neville. Me? I’m Dobby. I’m all black and I like the name. It sounds tough and smart, which is what I am. 

Day seven – The vibrating begins

This woman comes in to the bathroom all day long, bringing us food. Then she sits on a chair and picks us up, one by one, and puts us in her lap, and strokes us with her hand. At first I hated it, but something weird happened today. I could feel a little shudder go through my body, and then I felt like I was floating, and all I wanted was more of her hands on me. I was vibrating! It surprised her, too. She smiled and seemed so happy. She put me up to her face and kissed me, and said, “this is it! This is why we’re all here.” I’m not sure what she means, but I’m beginning to understand. 

Her friend who I can tell has so much experience with kittens comes over to see us. Hermione freaks out and bites her thumb, which we all think is pretty funny. But she also holds me and Harry real nice on her lap. When she holds Harry and sees how limp he is, she looks up at my human friend and frowns.

Day ten – the pooping starts

Something else weird is happening to my body. I’m pooping all the time. Not a lot of poop, but just all the time. I can’t help myself. Another weird thing: as I watch my siblings grow, Harry and I stay small — the same size. The woman puts us all on the weighing machine one at a time and I see her get a worried look on her face. SCOOP! She grabs me and Harry and takes us to another animal doctor, who tells her we have a parasite – a thing that grows in us, that might keep us from growing. She takes medicine home. It tastes bad. Being sick sucks.

But both me and Harry are starting to want to be held more often. When the woman holds us we curl up inside her warm clothes and it’s like being next to Mama. But she has to put me on a towel because of… you know… the poop.

Day 12 – a new mama?

A new woman comes over with her two kids to meet me! She says she wants to give me a home of my own. But then the pooping thing happens, and my human has to wrap me in a towel to hand to my new mama. I am embarrassed, but what can I do? She seems to want me anyway, and says she’ll wait until the poop thing is better and I get a little bigger. I’m not sure that will ever happen but it’s nice to be wanted! It makes me feel warm in my tummy.

Day 14 – Done with the medicine

After days of taking that nasty stuff, we’re finally done with it. Our human weighs me and Harry again, and this time when she looks at the numbers, she cries. I guess we’ve actually gotten smaller. She kisses us, and says she won’t give up on us.

Our human moves us to a special place – a circle in the middle of the room that we can’t climb out of – so that she can feed us more often without my siblings getting jealous.

I’m special, I tell ya! Proof? She now gives us tiny bits of cooked chicken all day long – and sometimes at night! It’s pretty much the best thing EVER in this world, but I wish she would stop looking so sad and worried. I’m not scared and she shouldn’t be either.

Day 16 – Not-so-fun playtime

Our human puts me and Harry back with Neville, Hermione and Weasley, thinking we can join them for playing on the stairs. But something is wrong with Harry’s legs. They won’t carry him up the stairs anymore. He just sits down and sighs. It’s hard for me, too, but I can still scramble up one if I really try.

Now our human is really upset. Once again… SCOOP! We’re put in the box and taken to yet another animal doctor. She is also puzzled, uses words I don’t understand like “birth defect” and “fading kitten” but our human shakes her head and says thanks but I’m going to keep trying. I don’t understand it, this thing she feels for us, but I’m glad she feels it.

Once we get home, Harry starts refusing food. She holds him and he is so limp and quiet, and she whispers that she will not force him to eat anymore.

Day 18 – Harry goes away

It’s dark outside and quiet, and Harry and I are snuggling and sleeping, when I feel a little shudder go through him and he doesn’t move again after that. I snuggle closer to him, and when our human comes in the morning, he is very still. She lifts him up and cries and cries while she wraps him in a pretty flowered fabric. I wish I could tell her not to be so sad. Harry is still around, and he’s not sick anymore! That should be good news.

My human says she doesn’t want me to be alone now, so first she tries putting a pretend cat with me. It works okay for a little while, but I’m cold without another kitten.

Then she tries putting me with my siblings, but my brothers are too rough with me. I don’t think they’re trying to be mean, they just want to play, and when they pounce on me and bite me in the neck, I have a hard time getting back up again. My human quickly takes the boys and puts them in another room and sticks me with Hermione who is much more gentle. It’s nice to have someone to snuggle with as my legs keep getting weaker.

Day 21 – Little me

I look at my human with new eyes. She brings me cooked chicken that I’m too tired and feel too sick to eat. When I turn my head away from her treats she gets sad again. But I feel peaceful. And suddenly I get it now – this thing she felt for me and Harry. She calls it “love” but to me it’s just… everything good and warm that connects her and me and Harry too. In this life it’s a gift she gave me – almost as good as the cooked chicken.

She goes off to call her animal doctor friend and while she goes I think maybe this is a good time to go myself – snuggled next to Hermione, feeling the love of my sister and my human and knowing because I was a good boy I’ll be back to try this whole living thing again.

She came back and I was gone, still and quiet. She plopped down in the chair and put her head in her hands and just cried and cried and said loudly that she would “never do this rescue thing again.” I want to tell her stop. Just stop. That she will go on and help other kitties like me, and that love is bigger than her hurt – and definitely bigger than little me. It almost seems like she can hear me, because she stops, picks me up and kisses me, and smiles through her tears. I think she gets it, too.