Jane Ganahl

I felt anxious from the moment I woke up, knowing I was going to try and trap Blue Baby and Frankie today. I’m still a relative beginner at this and have had a few unqualified disasters since starting this work. These two were tiny (read: naive) enough, though, that I figured they would not balk at going in the drop trap, and I was right. They were a little anxious, sniffing around it, but their hungry bellies overrode their suspicions, and as soon as both were in the trap, I yanked the string and down the trap came. (Wile E. Coyote would’ve been proud.) They did what all ferals do in this situation – bashed themselves mercilessly against the sides of the trap in their frantic attempt to escape, which is extraordinarily unsettling to watch, especially when they’re babies.

I quickly grabbed the other trap – a standard one – and pushed it up close to the drop trap, which has no floor – only sides and roof – and the challenge is then to get them to leave the drop trap and venture into the traditional trap, which is long and narrow and has a floor. You do this by lifting the gates between the two traps, making sure the traps don’t come apart, and by covering the traditional trap so it’s like a dark tunnel that would entice them to enter. Of course that didn’t work this time. For literally 15 minutes I cajoled them to move, but they were frozen with fear. They were probably also in pain; Frankie’s little white nose was bashed and scraped. I just had to wait until they figured it out. When they finally darted into the darker space, I closed the gate behind them, and couldn’t resist lifting the blanket a bit to see them huddled in fright in one kitten clump. I also couldn’t resist touching them through the wires, just a little. They were soft as little bunnies. “You’ll be okay, little angels,” I cooed to them, which didn’t seem to help their fright at all.

I whisked them to my garage, where I had already set up the giant dog crate on top of a table and draped it with dark cloth. Inside the crate, I had placed a carrier with an uber-soft, thick fleece blanket inside it. (The crate itself is way too big for them to feel safe; they need a smaller hiding space within it.) Next to it, a little litter box (please, God, let them figure that out quickly) and in front of the carrier, some of their beloved tuna and some water.

I covered them up, and will leave them alone for a few hours so they can get their tiny heart rates down. Once they learn they’re not going to be imminently killed, they’ll venture out for some food.

I confess to also having feelings of grief for Mama Grace. She disappeared from the sidewalk the moment she saw me carrying the trap. It’s possible she is unaware that I trapped her kittens, but I suspect she’ll figure it out. When this has happened in the past, she has disappeared for several days, and I feel crushed by guilt. It’s impossible to know if she understands why I subjected her litter to this violence, in order to save them. I wish I could explain it to her, but I can’t.

So I’m trying to be content with the joy I also feel. These are the littlest, least hostile kittens I’ve ever trapped. I hope this means we can forego the hiss-hiss-scratch-scratch phase and get right to the cuddling. The next few days will tell. In the meantime, I am awash in gratitude that two more lives will be vastly improved for having human love in them. Grateful that I can help.

On Thursday – day five of no kitten sightings – I started to fear that they didn’t make it, that I was too late in collecting them and a coyote had beat me to it. Standing on the sidewalk and calling them while drizzle fogged up my glasses, I felt miserable. But on Friday morning, as I awoke, before the worry could grab me by the throat, I chose to lie there a while and meditate. Imagine the great joy in finding them there this morning, I told myself. And the greater joy in saving them from a pretty wretched life. Won’t that be freekin’ great? Take a deep breath… and trust.

When I arrived at the ravine, there was Mama Grace and her babies waiting for me. On the sidewalk. Calm as can be, their big eyes staring at me with a blank expression as if to say, what were so you worked up about, silly human?

I was elated. As I was yesterday when they were there for the second day in a row (a first). They actually came when I called! It was a tiny miracle – as subtle and beautiful as the ripples in Baby Blue’s fur.

It’s also clear to me that I have trouble trusting – not just my fellow humans but the universe. A few years ago when I was having pretty serious financial issues, my dear Simone told me to imagine myself falling backwards, eyes closed, into the waiting arms of the universe/ powers that be/ QuanYin (goddess of mercy). It was the beginning of a real turnaround for me, but there was never a tougher exercise. I’m the one that leaves every relationship. I’m the one who irritated my daughter her whole life by wanting things just so. I want to control how things go. I want to know what’s coming, what I can count on.

Good luck keeping to that standard in animal rescue. I learn more every day that I am not in control – that nature in both her cruel and beautiful forms dictates the path I’m on, as does my ability to tune in to her. It also doesn’t hurt to call for assistance from St. Francis. Here’s hoping he helps keep Baby Blue and Frankie – his namesake – coming around a few more days in a row, so I’m able to put out the trap, bring them in, make their lives beautiful. I trust that he will. I trust that it’ll be great. I trust.

Of course I spoke too soon on Saturday, so overjoyed I was after the kittens made themselves so visible, almost squeezable they were so close. Since then (three mornings now) I have not seen a single hair on their darling heads, and with each passing morning I get more anxious. I thought I was right there: this close to trapping time. And I could not be further away. I don’t even know where they are. The one hint I got today was evidence that a little bit of food had been eaten in the site where mama had hidden them days ago.

GAH. At times like this I wonder if I have the personal makeup to do this work. I take it almost personally when they go to great lengths to avoid me, even though I know in my head that they’re just in survival mode.

The additional frustration is that right now the ravine is having a yellowjacket problem. I no sooner put food down than a dozen bees begin buzzing around threateningly. It was unnerving to see the babies trying to eat food while recoiling from the bees in their faces. (Of course I had to look up whether jellowjackets could kill kittens, because I don’t have enough to worry about. They can’t.  😉 It’s possible the bees are why Mama Grace moved them. I have no idea. They are feral cats, and I am a human, and even though I often feel like I understand completely what they’re thinking and needing, other times the space between us is completely opaque. Like a curtain Grace raises and lowers depending on her defenses on any given day. (Some days greeting me with an friendly rub against the fence and tail-in-the-air greeting, other days disappearing in a white flash the second she senses my presence.)

Clearly my challenge if I want to keep doing this work is to learn p-a-t-i-e-n-c-e… something that has never come easy to me. I found comfort just now in discovering in my “cat log” that it took me almost two months to trap Ariel, Oberon and Puck – last summer’s kittens – after seeing them for the first time. And it’s been only two weeks since I first saw Frankie and Blue Baby. Time to take a deep breath, burn a candle and let the universe help me out.

It’s been a rough week since I last wrote. After being quite visible, the kittens vanished, leaving me as bereft as if I’d owned them for years. (How quickly we fall in love in love with these heartbreakers!) For three days, Mama Grace showed up for breakfast without them in tow, looking quite unconcerned with their whereabouts. As she stared at me, I demanded to know, what have you done with Baby Blue and Frankie? Aren’t you alarmed? Shouldn’t we alert Scotland yard? It made no impression – or so I thought – and she ate her breakfast and went on her way, oblivious to my worry.

It turned out Mama Grace was playing games on me – what is the equivalent of cat-and-mouse between human and feline? A few days ago I waited while she gobbled down breakfast, and when she was done, she headed down the sidewalk toward the bridge – something I’d never seen her do. I followed her a few steps. She stopped to groom herself. She walked on another distance and I followed. And she stopped again. We did this several times, all the while she continued to look back at me. She finally disappeared off the sidewalk and down into the ravine, and I ran to catch up. Just as she disappeared into the dense vines, I caught a glimpse of two little furballs scampering into the vegetation with her. I sighed with relief, but it was momentary.

Where she had chosen to lead them (smart mama) was a rocky, steep spot where no trap could be placed. And the sidewalk was too high above the spot for them to jump up to eat. It would make trapping them nigh unto impossible. But I made the best of it. In the following days I took food down to the area, and had to lower it down with the ‘grabber’ device I use to retrieve garbage. I talked to them soothingly, knowing they were just out of sight, and then moved away. They came cautiously out of the bushes, then immediately lunged at their food as frantically as fat men at a bake sale.

But I was aware that time was flying past. In order to trap kittens easily, you need to get them before they learn too well how to manage life as a feral. And before they learned to mistrust everything about the world’s most destructive, thoughtless and violent species – which would be mine. This morning when I woke up, I did a little meditation to St. Francis and all the good energy out there that watches over critters. Give me a break, I thought, I’m only trying to do some good here. Bring them to me so I can catch them and ultimately find them the love they deserve. 

When I arrived at the sidewalk, Mama was there – and so were the kittens. For the first time, they were in a spot that made access to the sidewalk easy and doable, even for the little bitties. I raced to get the food prepared, and put in on the sidewalk close to the bushes. Mama came up to eat… followed by the kittens. I stood there quietly – still working on getting them used to me – and they ate with gusto. My eyes welled tears of gratitude, sensing I’d gotten some major help with this stroke of ‘luck.’ I’m hoping to get them on Monday – it seems like the right day. Wish me luck.

After my elation that Mama-Kitty had brought up her little gray baby to the sidewalk for its first human-given food, I was surprised yesterday to see a second one! What a heartbreaker. So sweet. I might call this one Frankie, which could be girl or boy, after St. Francis. The grey one I’m just calling Blue Baby.

My task is now to grab these little monkeys and get them to the vet to be checked out, and then into someone’s warm lap. Hiding in the damp, garbage-strewn ravine is not the life for them. But it takes planning. They are already scared of me, but are starting to relax a little, and see me as the large hulking thing that brings them food. The next step is feed them closer and closer to the sidewalk, and then eventually ON the sidewalk, so I can use my patented Wile E. Coyote drop trap to get them. And then, poor Mama Grace is next – I can tell by her eyes that she is SICK of having kittens. Time to let me get you, Mama. Time to make life easier.

On on downer note, I have not seen Smokey the blind raccoon in two weeks. It looks like she comes around for food, but it’s hard to tell if it’s HER, or another coon, or even cat. Is she grieving over the loss of her laid-off caretakers? (I’m told that she would wait for them every morning and come running to the sound of their cars.) Has she given up on this home turf and is seeking another? Or has nature intervened in its primitive cruelty, as poor Smokey would make easy pickings for a coyote? I can’t think about that now – I have kittens to trap. New life offers new hope.

I arrived a bit later than usual at the parking lot yesterday, and found my usual three anxiously waiting for their daily meal. As I approached, a couple walked by with their dog, and asked if I was feeding the ferals. I said yes. Then the woman said, “I saw a kitten just now, running around.” My heart leapt up, and I asked her to show me where. She pointed to an area near where I feed them. Mama Grace is a small cat and could be confused for a kitten, so I took her word with a grain of salt. I fed the three, and watched for a while as they ate. Nothing.

Being pressed for time and needing to get into SF, I returned to my car in resignation. Then something told me to look again, so I went back, and there (s)he was. So darling and sweet!! Maybe 8 weeks old, with mama’s Russian Blue genes in full evidence – even with the rippled fur that purebreds have as kittens. I held my breath and walked closer. “Baby Blue” didn’t even notice me, it was eating so frantically, its little body quaking with joy. I slowly retreated, deciding the time to start getting it used to me was not today. The routine, though, would begin with my next visit: talk to it, get it to trust my soft voice, let it equate my voice with food, and within a few days, start putting the trap near the food, and eventually, the food will go in the trap, and it will be MINE. At least temporarily. 🙂

I had a feeling there was only one kitten this time; Grace had shown me her belly one morning, and I could only see one nipple used. It’s possible that there were more, but Baby Blue seems to be the only one that survived. I’m sure it will find a home with a lucky friend or acquaintance who needs a cuddler. The cats of this gene pool are total sweethearts, despite their ignoble births.

And in another example of the cycle of birth and age, this morning I came downstairs and Mocha (pictured in the blog portrait) had pooped in her bed. Very loosely. The smell was permeating the entire area. She just looked up at me with those innocent, 20-year-old eyes as if to ask what was the big deal? Oh JEEZUS. The rigors of taking care of a cat whose age is equivalent to 100+.

When I brought her home from the parking lot 18 months ago, it was because I thought she was dying, and I couldn’t bear the idea of finding her little tortie body some morning. She had already lost Marvin, her mate of 15 years, and was stone deaf, narrowly avoiding cars in the parking lot. I thought I’d make her last months the only ones in her life that were filled with love. But thanks to modern medicine (steroids and antibiotics) she is humming right along, with only the occasional misstep like this morning. I love her so, and will be heartbroken when she goes, which in theory could be any day. But I’m happy to have provided her what every creature deserves: love and the sense that their life matters.

I was approached in May about a old kitty named Pickles who lived at a beautiful estate in Mill Valley. His caretakers, who were very kind to him, nonetheless felt no responsibility for him when it came time to sell the estate and move. I was told they needed help in finding a home. I said give me the information and a good photo, and I’ll see what I can do. Then I heard back in late June that because no home had been found, they would likely be putting Pickles, who is 14, to sleep. I was angry and horrified, and reminded them that no one had given me the information I sought! Anyway, after some scrambling, and connecting with Debbie Edge of ASCS in Marin County, Pickles was offered a new home! I had little to do with it, but it was exhilarating to be part of it, even peripherally. His new mama is an elderly woman in Marin County with a lovely little house. He is apparently already getting ten times more love than he ever got in his luxurious surroundings.

[I’ll spare you a diatribe about why money never seems to buy enlightened behavior, but there you have it. They let Pickles go, and are paying for some veterinary care, so that’s something at least.]

Thank you, beautiful powers that be, for working wonders for the critters. Now, if I could just trap Smokey and find the kitten(s), I’d be blissful indeed!

It’s been three weeks since I started feeding Smokey, and the old girl has mostly eluded my intrusive care. I’ve seen her only a handful of times, and when I do, it’s cause for elation. She comes along the sidewalk, moving at her odd, hesitant gait in my direction, smelling the New Leaf cat tuna I’m tempting her with, along with dry cat food, and cookies when I have them leftover. I wait until she’s close and then call out to her softly. She pauses, lifting her perfectly pointed nose in the air, sniffing for danger, then finds her way to the food.

I keep talking to her so that she becomes familiar with my voice. I marvel at how she makes her way around, probably seeing only light and shadow, and how she’s been able to stay alive so long.

In the last three weeks, I’ve put out the word about Smokey, hoping that a sanctuary can be found so she can live with less fear and more convenience. There has been a connection made, with a kind animal rights activist who lives in the Sierra foothills. She said she would take Smokey if I could trap her. That means getting to know her comings and goings.

It’s not moving very smoothly. I check the feeding area at least twice a day to see if Smokey has appeared, but as of yet I have no sense of her timetable. I suspect she really misses the two women who used to feed her, tho I have nothing to base that on.

I’m also on Kitten Watch in the parking lot where I’ve been feeding for two years now. Mama Grace – the only cat who’s too smart to be trapped so far – was chubby for a few weeks and then… thin. She is an old hat at giving birth, and acts as casual as if nothing has happened. This routine has gone on before, and then – surprise – a darling new face or three emerges from the garbage-filled ravine. A good mother, she leads her babies up to the food source. I’ve been expecting some wee ones for a few weeks now, but so far nothing.

Last year, I saw the triplets (Oberon, Ariel and Puck) for the first time on the same day as Matt Cain’s perfect game – June 13 – so they seem “overdue” now on the 24^th. It makes me wonder if Grace’s latest babe(s) did not make it. Might a bobcat or coyote have found them unattended? Even though it’s a challenge to place any feral cats – even kittens – the idea that they might not have survived a feral birth just crushes me. Barbara has advised me to talk to Grace when I see her, and tell her to bring me her kittens. I’ve been doing this for the past few days; I’m not sure I’m getting through to her but I find it enormously amusing. And amusements are in short supply some of these cold mornings, with coastal drizzle turning my hair to frizzle.

Bring it, Saint Francis – help me find a better place for Miss Smokey, and show me those kittens!!

I spent a good part of my weekend watching for a blind raccoon named Smokey.

I’d seen this raccoon before – she has ventured into the area where I’ve been feeding my ferals these last two years, since I was lured into rescue work by a combination of divine intervention and personal foolishness. Her eyes are white with cataracts, but she seems otherwise healthy and her manners are always impeccably polite, reaching with long fingers and opposable thumbs for the food I’ve put out, collecting it and crunching it with great satisfaction in her sweet face, while my ferals recoil in fear and repulsion. She freaks them out because the only ‘coons they ever see are ruffians who bullyrag them out of their chow. Miss Smokey, on the other hand, is an excellent dinner guest. And mostly, she sticks to her own territory on the far side of the parking lot.

Why is Smokey in my care now? I blame the Coca Cola company.

The Odwalla company, which has been home-based here in Half Moon Bay, was bought several years ago by Coke, and an entire building full of people has slowly been phased out of jobs. A couple of them – women, natch – had been feeding Smokey plus a couple of cats for years now. Because they live a good distance away, it no longer makes sense for them to drive over just to do the morning feeding. Having seen me in the parking lot, they approached me about taking over the routine. Despite the fact that I have zero bandwidth to take on more critters* I of course said yes. (Francis, were he alive, would not say sorry, it might cut into my Facebook time or Zumba classes.)

(*This would include, in my home, my original three: fluffy black Claude the curmudgeon, tiny sweet manipulative Thumbalena, her rambunctiously alpha boy Iggy Pop, and two parking lot refugees: foster kitty Romeo, a huge fluffy male whose fractured hip means he can longer live safely in the wild, and Mocha the Miracle – 20 years old now after living 18 of those in a parking lot eating garbage and sleeping under cars until I brought her home. My outdoor non-pets include Charlie, a stray who lives on my front patio; and the three kitties in the parking lot that I feed: mama Grace, Russian blue relatives Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo. Of those, only Grace has eluded my trap, and the vet’s fixing surgeries.) (I have my hands full.)

Odwalla’s closing day was Friday, and I met Una in the parking lot, where she sadly passed me her cat/coon food, thanking me profusely for stepping in.

And since then, I’ve been visiting the feeding spot every few hours – which is luckily just across the street – hoping for a bonding moment with Smokey. On my final visit at sunset yesterday, the food was gone, and the water had clearly been used as a washbasin, with dirt and leaves floating liberally – a sign that a raccoon had been there.

My reason for wanting to gain Smokey’s trust is not because I need more critter love in my life; I want something better for this old raccoon. For years she has scrounged around Odwalla, hoping for food, trying not to get hit by a car, caring for babies she somehow efficiently raised. On day one of Smokey Watch, I ran into a fellow cat rescuer at the Farmer’s Market and told her about my new responsibility. She agreed with me that poor Smokey was due for a break, and soon emailed a friend who works at a Wildlife Refuge, about perhaps letting Smokey seek sanctuary there.

Sometimes I feel a divine presence in what I do for a particular critter; other times I feel like I’m whistling in the wind. I’m hoping in this case that it’s the former, not the latter. Come on Francis, help a blind ‘coon out.

Today, more than ever before, life must be characterized by a sense of Universal responsibility, not only nation to nation and human to human, but also human to other forms of life. ~ Dalai Lama

This blog is dedicated to the “critter work” I do. Not the literary event production, not the writing, but rolling up my sleeves and getting down with animal kingdom, in an attempt to improve some four-footed lives and experience some very human joy. It’s the one thing I knew I would write about with regularity and without feeling forced about it. The thing I’d talk about all day if given the opportunity.

I’m told by friends who are practitioners of profound spiritual pursuits that I am singularly graced in this recent undertaking. Otherwise, they say, you can’t explain how in only two years and with zero experience I’ve been able to trap, fix and find homes for more than 15 cats. I am also told that I have some heavy hitters batting for me in the spirit guide realm, including Saint Francis, patron saint of animals.

I’m not sure what to believe – I’m no longer a churchgoer, and view Biblical history as mostly myth. But when I first started this work, and had some interesting and profound dreams about Francis, I did some reading. His story, his words, resonated deeply with me. What I do know is that this work has opened the eyes of my eyes, brought me joy, made me question my priorities.

I explained it pretty well, I think, in this piece for Spirituality & Health, which got more than 1,000 shares. http://tinyurl.com/mhql3y6  It was because of the reaction to that piece that I decided to create this blog.

May it open some eyes, as mine were opened, do some good… and perhaps entertain at the same time?  🙂