Playing God, not always accurately

Rescue work often puts you in the uncomfortable position of all-knowing, all-deciding deity, charged with determining the direction of a cat’s future. The trouble is, we don’t know all, and sometimes our decisions are less than sound.

This is a topic among women I know who work with homeless/stray/feral cats. Each one wishes they had a do-over for a mistake they made, whether in releasing a cat that probably could have become domesticated, or homing a cat who later seemed pretty miserable about it. For me, I think my biggest mistake was not trying harder to bring Prince Harry (https://janeganahl.com/blog/2019/06/22/trying-to-find-the-happy-amid-the-sad/) indoors after he became relatively tame. He was so young and beautiful, but I was dissuaded from trying to find him a home because after he was first trapped and neutered he was a miserable, hissing beast. So he stayed in the ravine, and died there. Some would argue (and have) that this is how Harry wanted to live and die, but I still can’t help but feel I failed him.

Anyway, at least I can claim more successes than failures – probably WAY more, though it’s the failures we Type A’s torture ourselves with. And I think this is because I’ve gotten more skilled over the years at seeing signs that would indicate a cat is suitable for domestic life. It’s an imperfect art, but like watercolors or playing piano or writing, you do improve with time.

Recently a new kitty came to Prince Harry’s turf. As I’ve done every morning since he disappeared, I called out kitty-kitty-kitty as I opened my car door. And then I heard it – a faint, high-pitched meeeow! below the sidewalk in the deep bushes. I froze – could it be Harry?? I put out food for Toby – an uber-feral tuxedo boy who lives there and eats occasionally. Then I hid and watched eagerly.

Emerging from the slope below was a bedraggled grey kitty, with definite Maine Coon characteristics, whose long fur was matted with enormous clumps. She hesitated, then, spying the food, leapt on it voraciously. Observing her, she had a tipped ear – usually the sign of a feral that had been trapped, neutered and returned to the wild. But her eyes were bright and young – an encouraging sign – and when she saw me, she was too hungry (or too bold?) to run away, and just kept eating.

For a couple of weeks I tracked her, got her used to eating in a certain place, and when the day came to trap her, she went right in. Looking deep into her big eyes, I told her I’d call her Grizelda, which means grey warrior princess – because I knew she’d have a struggle ahead and I wanted to bestow some bravery.

“Your life will be better now, I promise,” I told her, while fully realizing that could mean either adoption, or a return to the cold ravine – with at least a morning meal as part of the deal. I would just have to watch for the signs.

I took ‘Zelda to the local vet where she showed me sign #1 that she might adoptable: when they reached into the carrier for her (after I had warned that I had no idea if she would lash out or bite), she submitted fearfully to their handling. She tucked her head into her chest and did not struggle. Soon we were able to pet her as they poked and prodded. They agreed she had already been spayed, and scanned her for a microchip, which she had! It traced back to a rescue group that had found her eating outside the Chevron station in town, with four kittens in the bushes nearby.

All were scooped up, checked out and sterilized. And the kittens all found loving homes. But when it came to deciding ‘Zelda’s fate, her rescuers made the best decision they could at the time: she was too wild and fearful to have a family, and they returned her to the gas station.

How she came to my ravine two years later is unclear – it’s a bit of a hike. But I always figure these babes find me because they need help, so I determined I would make the best decision I could.

She settled into the crate in my garage while I pondered my options and watched for more signs. For days she was a perfect lady – never once tried to bolt, ate heartily and used the cat box fastidiously. I would cautiously reach in to touch her, and was discouraged as she shrank away.

On day four, I persisted with stroking her head. And just as I was about to pull back, she began to purr, closed her eyes and rolled her head into my hand. It was the best sign of all –  and the one from which there is no turning back.

I knew ‘Zelda would not be an easy adoption, being around 3 years old, a former feral, and anxious. So I posted a notice about her, asking someone to give a second chance at happiness to this gas station cat. And, thank you St. Francis, I got a wonderful response right away: a couple who lived on Skyline and had a menagerie of animals. She would let ‘Zelda get used to indoor living without pressing her too hard for affection before she was ready to dispense it. (I loved hearing this – there are far too many stories of cats being returned because the new owner wanted a lap cat NOW, without realizing cats have their own timetables for trust.)

I get updates now on ‘Zelda, who is still getting used to her fancy new digs, even as she is proving an excellent, well-behaved guest. Her new mom eagerly awaits the day when Zelda makes her first foray onto her lap.

I guess this time I made the right decision. Playing God occasionally works out. Thanks, St. Francis, for the silent guidance.