Just a week after my last post, the blessed/wonderful situation with Robbie went to hell in a hand basket. His new parents, wise in the ways of socializing ferals, kept him in his dog crate for a few days, until he was purring when they reached in to pet him. Then they logically let him out, to explore the garage that was to be his first version of a home space.
That’s when the train abruptly ran off the rails. Robbie, terrified, went up into the rafters or a crawl space, and when they tried to bring him down, he freaked out, and bit and scratched them both – badly enough that his new mom had to seek medical treatment on a Sunday. To say I felt horrible about the situation was an understatement. The salt in the wound was that Robbie had to be quarantined, put back in the crate he has come to hate, for ten days. And of course, his new parents no longer want him. Or I should say, they have come to the conclusion that their set-up is wrong for Robbie, and that he likely will never adapt to indoor living. I absolutely can’t blame them, but needless to say, this flies in the face of what my impression is of this sweet, shy boy.
I’ve had an awful week just thinking about it, and him. Did I do a terrible job of placing him? My intuition about such things is usually so good. I can only start over from scratch when he comes back to me in a few days. Thankfully, because my inn is overflowing, a friend has offered to foster this waif in a week or so, and see if she can bring him along slowly and build up his confidence.
Oh, but that major drama was only the first of the week. Two days after Robbie’s meltdown, a beautiful strawberry blond tabby who had started coming around the parking lot (a 1- or 2-year-old I named Prince Harry) disappeared into the bottom of the ravine, where I could hear him crying.
Prince Harry pre-mishap
My gut telling me something was very wrong, I went across the street with a carrier four times that day, once even climbing through the brambles to get down the slope of the ravine. When I got there, I saw a flash of his blond fur, then he disappeared.
Close to sunset, and ready to give up, I finally saw him trotting down the sidewalk in my direction. The sight of him stunned me. Harry looked like a prizefighter who’d lost the big bout – lacerations of his face and head abounded. Nonetheless, hunger overrode his pain, and he rubbed up against me, meowing for food. My heart pounding, I positioned the food at the back of the carrier and gave him a little push, and he was in. And then he thrashed around like a mad thing, making his wounds worse. The sight of him brought me to tears.
With the vets in town closed, I rushed him to urgent care at Adobe in Los Altos, where they did such a superb job with Big Mike’s wounds. And again, the people there were just wonderful. They sedated Harry and cleaned both him and his carrier (which was splattered with blood, tuna and worse) up. The wounds, they said, were no doubt the result of a fight – either with another cat or perhaps a raccoon. Thankfully, the wound above his eye did not impact the eye itself. Exhausted, we got home by 11 p.m.
I was elated when my friend Caitlin (an experienced rescuer with her own organization) said she had a “vacancy” in her home rehab unit – a wonderful “cat aviary” built floor to ceiling in her garage, complete with climbing trees, many places for cats to nap and hide, and heated beds. I took Prince Harry there and he settled right into the highest napping spot – a window box nailed to the wall – and basically passed out for two days, sleeping so deeply he almost lost interest in food. I visited him to see how he was doing, and literally two days after his ordeal, he was purring and “making biscuits” when petted.
Harry post-fight (this is a video – turn it up and you’ll hear him purr)
Prince Harry in recovery
Cats are absolutely, undeniably, incredible beings. Their resilience is humbling.
He still looks like hell, but hopes are high that he will make a full recovery and will take to being an indoor cat. (He tested positive for FIV, so we want to make sure he stays inside.) If anyone is interested in this darling boy, let me know and let’s help continue turning his luck around.
St. Francis, thank you for putting me in the right place at the right time, but please… no more scary challenges for a while, okay? Only good and happy developments if you don’t mind.