… and then he drooled on my shoe…

It’s been forever since I’ve blogged for one simple reason: I told myself to STOP WRITING about gloomy subjects! There’s a lot of joy in cat rescue but of course the heart-crushing situations are the ones you most want to write about, in an often vain attempt at working out your feelings. Writing can be excellent self-therapy when you’re trying to purge some pain. But it’s a bummer to read.

So I waited for a happy moment, bestowed by the universe to both move my soul and make me laugh. The kind of moment that challenges your thinking and reminds you there are no absolutes in the world. And such a thing happened recently on the farm, where I feed most days of the week.

I’ve been feeding cats there for close to 10 years. It was one of Maggie’s and my first huge jobs, when we learned there were more than 20 cats roaming an historic farm on the outskirts of town. We collected 14 kittens, put them in foster care and adopted them out. And we trapped, spayed and neutered 7 adults. A few of the adults disappeared soon, but many stuck around, and we realized they also needed a new feeding routine. (Well-meaning farm hands would put out beans, rice and other leftovers for them, not realizing the onion and garlic was toxic.)

To this day, the survivors of that big colony get a big can of Friskies plus a small can of Fancy Feast every morning – crap food in general but it’s what we can afford and it fills their bellies! – as well as some medium-grade kibble.

Attrition due to age, car strikes and the farm’s proximity to mountain lions has taken the colony down to just three cats. (And yes, every loss cuts deeply.) Mama is the all-black matriarch, well into her teens and mean as a snake. She demands first dibs on all offerings, ears back and paws swinging.

Dora is a dainty calico who flirts with anyone who brings food, occasionally allowing a pet.

And then there is Jimmy.

Jimmy is actually a late-comer to the party, having shown up around the time quarterback Jimmy Garoppolo brought the 49ers out of the dumpster in 2020. Jimmy the Russian Blue was so handsome it seemed only fair that he be named after our model-worthy QB. He was twice the size of the two lady cats, but also twice as sweet: they pushed him around mercilessly and he was always the last to get access to a bowl.

In five years he’s gone from scared of me, to accepting me, to losing his mind with joy at the sight of me.

Because of Jimmy, I carry a grabber thingy – the long pole used to pick up trash on the side of the road. Jimmy will walk directly in front of me when my arms are carrying bowls, and I’ve tripped over him too many times to count. So I use the grabber as a sort of guard rail, to gently push him away from my feet when walking.

Seeing Jimmy is one reason I still enjoy the morning feedings. He is like a purring reminder of the difference we can make in these lives. I love him dearly even though he’s never been on my lap.

At the same time, I know for absolute sure that I won’t be here forever. I don’t mean I’ll be dying, though that is also certainly true! I mean at some point in the not-too-distant future I’m going to move away, to be closer to my daughter and granddaughter. Two years? Three? Unclear – I have a lot of responsibilities to hand off if this rescue group is to continue.

But in the meantime, I keep my own guard rails up. I know the free-roaming cats that I care for only really care about getting their morning fix. Anyone could feed them, I tell myself. They won’t miss me.

But again…. there’s Jimmy. On more than one occasion, when I feed him and feel him vibrate with a full-body purr when I pet him, then watch him flop on his side in a wanton display of ecstasy, I feel that deep anguish welling, knowing with absolute certainty that someday, if he’s still alive, I’ll leave him. I try to steel myself.

“You’ll be fine,” I’ve probably told him 50 times, sometimes with tears welling in my eyes. “You’ll love someone else. I can’t take you with me when I go.”

When I move, I plan to rent, because who wants a new mortgage in their 70s? And most landlords aren’t keen on having a barn cat in a backyard. Besides, I tell myself, Jimmy’s life is a pretty sweet one compared to many free-roamers. The farm he lives on is hospitable; the owner likes having the cats around, and has set beds inside his sheds and shelters for them. But he doesn’t have a lap to sit on, and mine is the only one he wants.

I was in the process of repeating my message to him the other day (I can’t take you with me, you’ll love someone else) and petting his purring neck and head, when I felt something wet on my hand. I looked down and there were drops on the ground, and on my shoe. Lifting his head, I realized Jimmy was drooling in utter, abandoned ecstasy, and had dropped tiny pools of slimy wetness on my shoe.

“ACK!” was my dismayed involuntary reaction. Then I burst out laughing.

“Okay,” I sighed, cupping his drooling face in my hand, and realized with absolutely certainty that I was no longer absolutely certain. “Maybe I can thinking of something…”