Cats

How Do We Know If They’re Meant to Be Ours?

/ still a dreamer / 2 Comments

Times come in our lives when we are ready to open our hearts and homes to a new animal. But how do we know which is the right one for us? The one that is truly meant to be ours?

A little over 13 years ago, one of my two pit bull terriers passed away from complications of cancer. She had been starved and brutally abused. She’d had a very high prey drive and was dog aggressive, but she thrived in my care, and in time, also did so with my other pit bull terrier, Chloe. Chloe was at the opposite end of the spectrum; she truly loved ALL animals. With Chloe then twelve years old, I wanted her to truly enjoy her golden years with me and without the competition of another dog. But I knew she’d love a cat, and I began my search.

Every day that I was at work in the large city shelter, I took my lunch time to look at the over 200 cats awaiting adoption, asking that I please be shown the cat that was meant for me. That cat wasn’t there. Or at least not yet. Not so coincidental to this story, by the way, was the fact that in the office adjacent to mine, worked a lovely man in his 60’s. He was about 5’4″, and his wife was about 4’11”. They were a petite and adorable couple, totally devoted to each other from the days of their young marriage. I told him how happy it made me to see a couple still so in love. He told me it was bashert, i.e., “meant to be” in Yiddish. What a perfect word, I thought, and how perfectly fitting for them. I, too, was on the lookout for bashert, but on a much smaller scale.

One day in early August, I needed to go into work on my day off. Traffic on my usual route was at a standstill, so I took the back way through the neighboring town. As I drove over the familiar railroad bridge, I passed what looked like a crumpled piece of paper, but intuitively I knew better. I backed up and spotted a 5 week old tuxedo kitten, waiting to be hit by a car or plunge to his death 100 feet below.

I managed to catch the terrified and elusive kitten, brought him to the medical department for a gentle baby bath for fleas, and then to my office. Too young for inoculations, he wouldn’t fare well in a shelter with so many animals, so I decided to foster him until he was stronger – in my office on workdays, otherwise, home with me. He was so tiny, I was afraid he’d got lost or stuck in the house, so I set him up in my bedroom in a large Great Dane crate, complete with bed, blanket, litter and food and water. He screamed bloody murder.

The next evening the same. I closed the bedroom door and let him out. He made a beeline for a comforting spot under my Chloe’s chin. Mom! For two more weeks I followed this routine, everyone suggesting I keep him. My reason for not wanting to do so was that everyone will adopt a kitten; I would take a middle age or senior cat, a bonded pair, a cat with feline leukemia, i.e., a hard-to-place cat. Someone would surely fall in love with him quickly.

Then it happened. I looked at this very verbal little pipsqueak of a kitten, nestled with his new adoring mom, and found myself saying things like, “Now appearing in the Shakespearean production of I Claudipuss ….” or coaxing him with Monsieur Claude, or “Where’s my Cloudy Paws?” You get the picture.

I had asked to be shown the cat that was meant to be mine, and it had nothing to do with what I thought I wanted, but everything to do with who needed me. And so we need to be open to our choices in animals. I do believe every animal that I have had was truly meant to be mine. Perhaps I saved his or her life, perhaps in some other way, she or he saved mine. Animals are our teachers and guides, and may come to us in the most unexpected species, breeds, time and manner. They may be brought to us, or we to them, but we must always listen to our hearts.

Today that teensy feral kitten is a long and lanky 16 pound cat with tuxedo markings, but with all the features of an Oriental breed – short, smooth coat, long face, body and tail, and oh, yes, the (sometimes very annoying) vocalizations. His names today are Claudie the Dog Boy, (for all the dog tricks he happily performs), Mr. Freshy McFresh Face, and just plain Claude or Claudie. But it was those first silly names that were the tip off,  (that and his instant attachment to Chloe), that he was meant to be mine, kitten or no.

It was simply bashert.

He Who Will Not Be Touched

/ still a dreamer

It’s tough looking after a feral cat. And by that I mean beyond making sure he always has enough food and fresh water, and de-worming him at the end of summer,  there’s not much more you can do for a cat that has never been touched. He will run in terror if you approach him or even make too loud a noise. I call him Little Fee. (He appeared in Summer 2009, and I initially thought he was a female, and named him Fiona.)

I continue to be amazed at how this little guy – so small, he must have been the runt of his litter – tugs at my heartstrings. He will run at the drop of a hat, but lately he has been a little more brave. He seems to know that he has some small sense of entitlement on my back porch. If  he is already eating at the back door, he will continue eating his fill and ignore the cat from next door that normally threatens and chases him away. He even dares to look him in the eye, then continue eating.

“She loves me,” I imagine him saying. “I belong here, too.”

But once done, he slinks away submissively in slow motion so as not to challenge the next door cat who also spends time with me and on my porch.

Imagine my surprise when I went into the kitchen for coffee late this morning and saw none other than Little Fee sound asleep on one of the back porch chairs, (see photo above), looking for all the world like he lived here and was just napping. I say surprise because I have never once seen this cat sound asleep on a chair on my porch – he seemingly just discovered it as an actual possibility. I took the photo through the closed back door and storm screen. If I’d opened it, the moment would have been lost, and since my intention is not for a gallery shot so much as a moment, it’s as unfocused and grainy as it is.

Little Fee … who would think one could be so in love with a creature that cannot – will not – be touched?

Feline Floor Ballet

/ still a dreamer / 2 Comments

Some say it’s a lost art … floor ballet. Not true. But its practitioners – unfortunately for its admirers – tend to work in isolation rather than coming together in troupes, such as in formal ballet as we know it.

I am proud to say that I have one of those practitioners right here in my very own home, pictured performing the famed masterpiece, “Danse du Soleil.” Claude wasn’t always this talented. He spent much of his young dance career in awkward leaps, caricaturistic posturing, and mad dashes. It has only been in the last few years that he has been practicing and devoting himself to floor ballet. At first it seemed like he was mastering the art of relaxation.

I was wrong. Dance is his life. It seems, as he has matured, that floor ballet has become his everything. While it’s true that he has brought the art to sofa and bed, it is the floor ballet which is his heart and soul. The sun is his greatest inspiration, but he happily jetés on the floor under so many circumstances, he has simply become an inspiration.

Although the attached photographs are lacking in detail due to the brilliant sunlight, you can see the progression of movement, the grace, the utter joy. I am so proud to have a dancer in the family.

And here I thought I had nothing to write about today.

No One Does It Like A Cat

/ still a dreamer / 4 Comments

If you have a prescribed spot of sun and a cat, chances are the latter will find the former and fit right in it. It is the cat’s artistry to seek Ra and pour oneself into his shape.

Witness Mewsette below – the perfect cat in a light box.

Conversations with Fiona

/ still a dreamer / 1 Comment

Fiona-SmudgeShe appeared out of nowhere. She was clearly hungry and looking for food. She was also, as best I could tell, feral, although immaculately clean, as even the wildest of cats can be.

I offered her some of the dry food which I feed my own cats and she inhaled it. Any move towards her and she ran off the back porch to points unknown. She soon discovered, however, that there was always food on my back porch for the cats next door, who are outside days, inside nights. For reasons unknown, I named her Fiona.

Our conversations have been mostly long eye blinks, (“I love you” for cats), and my cooing to her in the most assuring tones I can offer a frightened animal. We got along in our distant way, and a few weeks ago, she ate while I read my book on the back porch, and then nodded off. I accepted this as quite the compliment.

She disappeared for a week and has since returned. This past Saturday while I baked, she seemed to enjoy the kitchen sounds and my occasional cooing to her. She fell asleep with her head leaning on the food bowl. This morning she was waiting for me. I fed her, and she has now dared to come about 4′ away from me. I sat on my haunches near one set of steps on the back porch while she sat and we exchanged long, long blinks.

I wonder where she has come from and where she goes at night. Does she actually belong to someone? I’m not really even sure if Fiona is a female, and it’s not easy to tell with her somewhat bushy tail. Looking at her face, I’m thinking to rename her Smudge for the white smudges on her nose, a name for all sexes, knowing all the while, she may well have a home somewhere in the neighborhood and another name.

Having just peeked outside my side door, I see she has fallen sound asleep on the second step, in earshot of my voice and activity. I wonder where our conversations will lead.