I was finally able to trap Lewiston, the beautiful Maine Coon mix who had been timidly eating behind the Post Office the last couple of months. Within just two days he progressed from body language that seemed to say holycrapwhat’shappened, to patiently allowing me to pet his head and even turning his head to one side so I can really scritch him under his ears. No purring yet, but I have hopes for this by the end of week #1.
Sweet Lewie may have set a new record for calming down.
It was touch and go that first day, as to whether I’d even get him. I’d been feeding him for a couple of weeks at the mouth of the trap, then a bit inside it, then halfway inside it… Each time he hesitated, withdrew, turned away, sniffed at food being eaten by Gertie (the alpha dowager half his size and twice his toughness) only to be chased away. And so it was on Monday, with the food placed allllll the way at the end. He fretted nervously, walked around the trap several times. I withdrew back to the car, so as not to arouse his suspicion. And as soon as I did, I heard the telltale <snap>. I ran back breathlessly, to see the sight I always hate to see: a kitty bashing itself senseless (sometimes even bloody) inside the trap. But as soon as I spoke to him, he quieted, though heaving with anxiety. I threw a blanket over the trap, and carefully carried him back to the car.
In the vet office, we had to wait a while before they could take him in. While we waited, speakers played the most heinous Christmas music while dogs barked and cats bellowed in their carriers. It was almost comically chaotic. The first photo above was taken at that moment, when I lifted the drape to see his eyes the size of saucers. And I wondered what was freaking him out the most: finding himself in a cage, or hearing Mariah Carey’s dog-whistle voice butchering “Joy to the World.” (My sincere apologies, Lewie, for that rude entrance into a better life.)
So here’s what I know for sure: Lewiston is a young guy (4 or 5), not neutered (tho he is now), not microchipped, a bit dehydrated and scabby in spots, but otherwise surprisingly healthy. Here’s my guess as to his life story: I think because he’s not afraid of humans, he was likely a ranch cat from up the ravine. Within a walkable distance from where he (and Big Mike, and Ginger, and others) showed up for a meal are several ranches or farms. I believe that these cats find their way to me because ranch cats are often ignored and left to their own devices, and end up starving. Several kitties who have found their way to the Post Office field are in terrible shape; Lewie was one of the lucky ones.
As soon as I started feeding him, I prayed that he would be catch-able, and would take to indoor living, as he seemed so out of his element. (There is always such a difference in strays: some act like they OWN the woods, and could stare down a puma; others like Lewiston are frightened of everything and low cat on the totem pole. Poor Lewie ate after any other cat who was there on a given day.)
Anyway, imagine my delight when he he settled in so quickly! As soon as day 3, he was lying languidly in the big dog crate (his “home” until better arrangements are made) and when I walked in, he stretched luxuriously and yawned. So much for the stress of captivity!
Here’s the biggest challenge: I do NOT have room for Lewie while I seek a home for him. My inn is full with “kitties with issues.” Pokey just had dental surgery and is high on pain killers, wandering my bedroom like a tanked frat boy and unable to eat his beloved kibble; Ginger’s mouth cancer might be progressing again, as her tongue is almost always protruding a bit; in response to the presence of a new-cat smell in the guest bedroom (and the fact that he can’t get in there), Iggy my spoiled alpha has taken to nipping at my newly-bloomed narcissus flowers and decorating the carpet with projectile vomit; and Skeeter, whose potential adoption fell though, has regressed in her socialization. Why? Because I’m pulled in so many directions.
I’ve always said that what keeps us rescue types from crossing the line into Crazy Cat Lady-land is knowing our limits. I’ve clearly crossed mine, but what else could I do? It was time for Lewie to come in from the cold and learn to love and be loved.
I’ll wait a few more days while he continues to eat and sleep heartily, before I try and encourage him on his path, via fostering or adoption. He is a sweet and lovely boy and I so wish I had room for him, but not this one, and not this time. It will be someone else’s warm lap that he decorates.
St. Francis, thanks for the break this time; I think his story will have a happy ending, and maybe sooner than I even know.