It’s taken a month of TLC, but this messed-up little guy is starting to turn around. He’s gained much-needed weight, his fur is thicker and a little shinier, his eyes are opening – wide at times! – rather than just cracking open and then shutting again. I guess when I compare day one with one month later, I can see the difference.
He still sleeps every moment of the day when he’s not eating, but he’s eating with a bit more enthusiasm. His blood and urine tests showed evidence of internal parasites, so he’s been treated with liquid medicine to rid him of them.
But Dorian still looks so sickly to me, and so I’m reluctant to let him go just yet. But perhaps he will always be? My commitment to him was get him back to health – as much as possible – and then decide his future. My feeble thinking: that he would become warm and affectionate after feeling better. But alas, today as I tried to pet his head, his ears flattened and he hissed. Sigh.
I’m still able to reach in with a feather tickler and stroke him. He’s not happy about it, and only occasionally bites down on the feather crown as if it’s a bird invading his inner sanctum. But coming around? He’s not.
And of course, because I’ve had him a month now, I’m attached. Which means when I let him go I’ll worry every day that he will be killed like Diego was this spring, like Grace last year, like Smokey the blind raccoon, who has not been seen since the predator did its killings in mid-March. But at least I’ve given him a chance of a life with less suffering.
Speaking of Diego, when I did a drive-by this weekend past the clearing behind the Post Office, my heart almost stopped. There was a long-haired gray kitty eating Gertrude’s leftovers. But a closer look proved it was not Diego. This kitty is longer, leaner, with a smaller head and bigger ears. And most importantly, it didn’t know me. Where Diego’s eyes would sparkle when I came near, this kitty was cautious, even afraid.
An odd thing happened when I realized this was not the kitty I’d fed for two years: I burst into sobs, there in my car, alone in the parking lot on a Saturday. I wasn’t really sure why I was crying. Most likely I never adequately grieved the loss of a kitty I felt continually guilty about not saving, not taking home with me. Or perhaps I was envisioning a future where Dorian could disappear too, because I lacked the facility to keep him safe.
The fact is, there is NOTHING – no facility – that will keep Dorian safe. Or Gertrude, who has lived behind the Post Office on her wits for something like ten years. Or any of the others I feed and fix. NOTHING. And it makes me crazy.
What is needed is a piece of someone’s country property, where I could raise the money to set up a refuge for ferals. It would be huge and fenced, with bushes and grass and short trees, and it would have a roof – chain link if nothing else – to keep the coyotes and mountain lions at bay, and a little shelter house, with beds for warmth. They’d still get the experience of being outside, but they’d be safe and protected.
I spend way too much time thinking about this. But this is not rocket science, this is fairly elemental and not that expensive. It just takes passion and commitment and connection. I’ve got the first two in spades, and am working on the third.
Meanwhile, I’ve got to finish getting Dorian Gray back on his feet. There are many more in the queue. Saint Francis, help shore up my mushy heart, and help me keep the picture big, the goal in sight.