When you need something you didn’t want in the first place

Regular readers of this blog will know that in recent years, the only cats I took in were the “unadoptables.” Street cats that were too shy, too badly injured, too sick, or too OLD to relocate once I had eased them into the indoor life. The last six cats I took in were all from the Land of Broken Toys.

There was Big Mike, whose predator-shredded leg (and resulting surgical costs) were the reasons we started a nonprofit. Ginger was wandering in a parking lot, near death from mouth cancer that miraculously cleared up after she was given months to live. And Wyatt, an elegant old gentleman. was found wandering and near death from starvation after being abandoned. They all thrived in my care for a while, and each had a good death, one per year, in 2020, 2021, 2022, breaking my heart each time.

Since then the only occupants of my home and heart, in addition to my two still-living street cats, were transients: kittens I socialized and adopted out, abandoned cats I found homes for, TNRs who spent a night or two and were released. And I was committed to keeping it this way. At my age, I’m trying to simplify/downsize. And to quote MYSELF from six months ago: “I can’t handle a third cat – not with my two seniors needing so much TLC.”

HA! Be careful what you (don’t) wish for.

I wrote that in my blog when weighing what to do about the latest cat abandoned on the farm – whom I’d given the moniker Biscuit because she was so happy to be held that she kneaded the air.

First she spent a couple of days with the farm owner’s wife. But she could only keep her briefly, with family arriving for Christmas. When I received her from the farmer’s wife, the hands that passed the carrier to me were nicked with small cuts. “She’s a sweetheart, but a little… uh…. rambunctious,” she said.

I found a second foster to take her during the holidays. By the end of her two-week stint there, the foster was donning ski pants to go into Biscuit’s bedroom, in case Biscuit lunged at her legs.

An elderly woman asked to adopt her and I made the wrong decision to let it happen. (Wrong, because the moment I dropped her off, I had major misgivings – worried Biscuit’s antics would bring a bookshelf down on her new owner’s fragile head.) This time, Biscuit didn’t act out roughly, but she hid under the bed. For two days. And the woman’s cat hated her. It was miserable for all. There was no choice but to take her back and try to train this adorable monster to be socially acceptable.

It’s only temporary, I told myself. I don’t need a third cat.

I took her the vet, to try and get a handle on her never-ending sniffles. It was there I learned she was likely a combination of Abyssinian and tortoiseshell breeds – a new one on me. That, the vet told me, was partially responsible for her occasional aggression and complete rambunctiousness. And also her neediness; in just a week, she had become my shadow, following me everywhere, swatting at my ankles if I wasn’t walking fast enough. I renamed her Abby for her proud – and pugnacious – lineage.

It took a while to adjust to Abby’s rhythms – even longer to get used to her “appetite for destruction.” No pens were safe on the desk, plants on high shelves plummeted, sneak attacks on Pokey and Skeeter were daily occurrences, often when they were using the litter box. Pokey was mystified why she could be cuddling with him one minute, chewing on him the next. But she seemingly couldn’t help herself.

Easier to curb were her impulses to bite my hands and play too hard. She was so desperate for attention that all I had to do was say a sharp “no!” and take my hand away, which would leave her crestfallen. A smart little monster, she learned quickly. And it broke my heart that whoever her first family was, they didn’t know how to break her of her habits, and abandoned her.

In the course of the months of retraining, I of course fell in love, and she with me. She now perches behind me on my armchair, and if I let her, will destroy my personal space when I sleep by sneaking onto my pillow. She chirps hello in every time I walk in the door, and when I first wake up. And life’s been tough lately – I hunger for those check-ins.

Still, I kept talking about adopting her out… until a moment in recent weeks when I was re-making my list of rescue to-do’s. I saw the line I’d been looking at since January: “Abby home?” it read.

I turned to her, as she slumbered by my shoulder. I kissed her nose and she stretched luxuriously and purred.

“Who am I kidding?” I sighed. “You ARE home.” I crossed the line out.

I may not have wanted her at first, but we all need love – and it will always change my mind.