by Amy Newmark
The group finally managed to snag him and put him on the schedule for a neuter. Since the spay-neuter veterinarian was out of town, he had to wait several weeks, allowing time to work on his social skills.
Max hated being caged. I visited him daily and explained that life would soon be better. He would have his surgery, try to be friendlier, and find a home of his very own — a nice, warm barn with lots of mice. The day of his neuter finally arrived. While in recovery, they realized that Max had somehow not been tested for feline immunodeficiency virus (FIV). Normal procedure would be to test on intake. The results were discouraging: positive for FIV. As a small rescue group with limited cat isolation, euthanasia would be indicated. On the verge of tears, I realized that I had become attached to this cantankerous little cat. Adopting him seemed out of the question as I already had three cats and no place to isolate an infectious one. But if not me, who? It’s hard to find a home for a healthy cat, and almost impossible for a sick cat.
I decided to build a cat enclosure. It seemed like a crazy solution, and I didn’t really have the time to do it. He would be enclosed by himself and still have his underlying illness. When I suggested my idea, I expected my normally sane friends to discourage me and point out the obvious drawbacks. Instead, the group responded quickly with “We’ll help.” Planning to get this completed within the week, everybody pitched in to finish in only four days. I think they were afraid I would change my mind, and everyone wanted Max to have his chance. He moved into his new house — a 10x10 chain-link room with climbing perches, a large dog igloo, several cat cubbies, and lots of toys. I still felt bad because living alone in a cage was not my idea of a quality life.
Within a couple of weeks, I received a call from an acquaintance who urgently needed placement for Simon, an FIV-positive cat who was being displaced. It was the perfect solution. Simon and Max were instant friends, and they thrived in each other’s company. When the seasons changed, my friends and I winterized the enclosure, making the cats snug in their heated areas. Simon was a very affectionate cat and he and Max frequently groomed each other. Simon loved to be petted and was quick to curl up in my lap when I sat in the chair visiting them. As Max watched intently, his bad habits diminished. He no longer bit or swatted at people. Simon succumbed to his disease after several years, but Max was still going strong. By then, Max was a lovable, friendly cat. Simon had imparted his social skills to Max.
I was now down to two other house cats, both extremely old. The veterinarian felt that exposure to Max would not be a serious threat to such old cats. Thus, the now affable Max moved into my house. He quickly settled in and enjoyed the company of the other cats and even the dogs. He spends most days in the sunroom these days, but he also enjoys roaming my fenced yard and checking out his old digs in the cat enclosure.
Max has shared my life for eight years. With any injury or illness, increased immune-system support is required. Overall, though, he’s been fairly healthy. He demands to be petted every day, and he’s not above an occasional light nip if I seem to be ignoring him. He rarely meows, but instead gives me a determined stare if he needs something. Food bowl empty? Stare at bowl. Stare at Mom. Stare at bowl. Stare at Mom. His determined stare can even penetrate my sleep.
I wonder about the quirks of fate that brought this special animal into my life and allowed me to help two cats in the process. I wasn’t looking to adopt a cat, especially not a sick one. If the blood test had been done in a timely manner, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to get to know him. If I hadn’t built the enclosure for Max, Simon wouldn’t have had a place to go. If Simon hadn’t come, I doubt Max would have ever been a friendly cat. It’s amazing how things work together in challenging circumstances and create a terrific outcome!
~Carmen Marlin
The Fierce, Bad Cat of Evergreen Farm
Anyone who claims a cat cannot give a dirty look has either never kept a cat or is singularly unobservant.
~Maurice Burton
Many years ago, my precious cat was struck and killed on the road late one evening by the neighbouring farmer. An accident, of course, but he felt horrible about it. I buried her deep in my flowerbed, still wearing her little velvet collar with the brass bell. A few weeks later, I looked down the long driveway of our horse farm and saw my neighbour tromping down the driveway in his rubber boots with a determined hold on a screeching calico kitten. He explained that his mother’s cat had had a litter, and this one did not have a home. I wasn’t really finished mourning my poor Panther, but who can resist a kitten?
I took her inside and regarded her: tiny but very cute, with brilliant splotches of orange, black, and white. So began my life with Sabu.
She was a hellion right from the start. When people came into my living quarters, Sabu would fly up the back of an easy chair to get closer to their faces and introduce herself with a hiss and a spit. Her early days were spent outside in the company of the farm dog: a one-hundred-pound German Shepherd who thought Sabu was the greatest. For several weeks, I rarely saw her during the day. I would catch glimpses of her bounding after the dog. The Shepherd had one eye on his kitten and the other on the doings of the farm, so I knew Sabu would never be too far away. Occasionally, she would fly through the barn, chasing one of the barn cats.
The humans fared no better. The horse boarders would come to my door to tell me that a wild cat had moved into the stable and was hissing and growling at them. The cat, they said, was sitting on top of their tack lockers and would scratch them if they tried to open their doors. I would go to the tack room, pick up Sabu, apologize, and carry her back to the clubhouse. The blacksmith, who looked after the horses’ hooves, complained he could not write his bills at the counter because my cat kept attacking him. I had only one rule for Sabu: She had to come in at night so she never befell the fate of Panther.
Sabu was absolutely fearless and not the least bit nervous. She rode around with me in the farm Jeep, sitting up on the console beside me. She would join me on visits to my parents, who lived several hours away. She showed none of the fear of travel or new surroundings that other cats did. She loved apple pie and turkey and sleeping deep down inside my long, black riding boots.
Although I had to apologize for her a lot, I was secretly proud of my feisty cat. As a professional groom, I lived and breathed horses, but it was often a lonely life. It was a life of pure dedication to the exquisite creatures I cared for, and there were few days off. It was hard to stay in touch with my family, and the farm animals became my friends.
Sabu was my best friend of all. Every night, I would go to the door and call her, and she would come bounding inside. She would jump on my lap, and then crawl up my neck and nestle in my freshly showered hair. She would let out the biggest rumbling purr ever heard and then fall sound asleep. As antisocial as she was with other people, she loved me, and I her.
Years went by. The stable was sold, and Sabu was my companion through thick and thin. My dad would say that I dragged that poor cat “from pillar to post,” and I guess I did. At one point, I moved into the bottom half of a house that I shared with my sister. I imagine this was probably Sabu’s least favourite home. I was preoccupied with my career as a horse trainer, and she was alone a lot and getting older.
To make matters worse, I had more of a social life now, and to Sabu’s horror, I began to bring home dates. It never went well. She would climb up behind them on the couch, and stare and growl and hiss and even spit. Her verbal takedowns were harsh, and her silent stares were withering.
One night, I invited over a fellow I had been dating. We had been set up on a blind date, and I really liked him — even though he was a self-proclaimed “dog person.” We settled on the couch to watch a movie, and Sabu silently regarded us from the floor. Then Sabu stood and began to make her way toward us. I knew instantly that her intention was to jump up on the arm of the couch, walk over the lap of my new beau, and settle on my lap.
There was no way this was going to go well
unless he sat perfectly still and did not make eye contact.
As predicted, Sabu jumped up, started across my companion’s lap, and then did the strangest thing. She looked at him and seemed to do the equivalent of a feline double take. Instead of climbing on me, she turned and put her front paws on his chest and bunted her nose under his chin several times. He stroked her silky fur as if they were old buddies, and she began to purr.
So, I guess Sabu gave us her blessing right then and there. Ron and I continued dating and were married several years later. A major sticking point was Ron’s home office. He thought Sabu could be trained to stay out of his home office even when the door was open. That began a battle in which Sabu would play dead and have to be carried from the room and put on the other side of the door. From there, she would lie staring at my husband at his desk, and then extend a defiant paw across the doorway into the room. I swear I could see the steam coming from my husband’s ears.
Sabu was with me for nineteen years. And since she had picked him out, my husband was with us on that last sad trip to the vet. I’ll always be glad that farmer brought me that unwanted fierce “bad” kitten, way before I thought I was ready for my next cat.
~Joanne M. Copeland
One Step at a Time
Always the cat remains a little beyond the limits we try to set for him in our blind folly.
~Andre Norton
My mother’s words felt like a punch to the stomach. “Figaro’s been hit by a car. She’s dead.” Figaro was a feral cat we’d been feeding in our barn for years. Though she’d never let me pet her, the sight of Figaro’s golden eyes watching while I mucked stalls was a familiar comfort. Now, without warning, she was gone.
And that wasn’t even the worst part. Barely a week earlier, Figaro had given birth. Now, as Mom and I stared at one another, I knew we were both thinking the same thing: The kittens had just become orphans.
Choking back my tears, I walked out to the barn. I found Figaro’s babies in an old cardboard box: three tiny balls of fur — two orange, one black. Their eyes were closed, and their ears were folded up. As I leaned closer, the sightless kittens started hissing, realizing I wasn’t their mother.
They had no idea their lives had just changed forever.
My legs were leaden as I carried the box to the house. Mom went to buy milk-replacement formula while I researched how to care for my new “children.” At first, my efforts weren’t appreciated. The kittens screeched and flailed whenever I tried to feed them, their claws decorating my skin with scratches. I learned how to tell the two orange kittens apart — one had a white stripe down his nose — and established a feeding order. Unfortunately, by the time I finished with the third kitten, it was almost time to start feeding the first one again.
Several sleep-deprived days later, things weren’t going well. Though they were thriving physically, the kittens still shrieked every time I touched them. They happily nuzzled the stuffed dog I’d given them, but had no interest in cuddling with their adoptive mom. I was only a source of food and nothing more.
Then one night, as I was holding the stripe-nosed kitten in my hand, gently cleaning him with a washcloth, I realized that he wasn’t struggling anymore. Instead, he was staring at me. His calm, blue-gray eyes gazed deep into mine, like he was looking directly into my soul. Our eyes remained locked on each other for several long seconds, and then something amazing happened — a low rumbling noise started to fill the air.
“Are you… purring?” I asked incredulously.
The rumbling grew louder, and I couldn’t stop the grin that stretched across my face. Suddenly, all those lost hours of sleep meant nothing.
Over the next week, I managed to “melt the ice” with the other two kittens. As the days passed, blue eyes transformed to amber-gold, and our house became filled with scampering feet. The stripe-nosed kitten, Sputnik, matured into a powerful athlete. He never missed a chance to leap onto the kitchen counter. He loved showing off his cleverness by stealing rubber bands, opening cupboard doors, and flipping light switches. And, like his siblings, Sputnik adored “Cuddle Time.” As months turned to years, I forgot what it felt like to watch TV with an empty lap or sleep without three warm balls snuggled beside me.
Then, one morning, everything changed. There was a cat on my pillow and another cat by my feet, but the space by my waist was empty. I noticed Sputnik limping toward the bed.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” I asked. “Did you hurt your leg?”
Clearly untroubled, he hopped on the mattress, settled in, and fell asleep. Later that day, though, the limp was worse. Our veterinarian diagnosed Sputnik with a ruptured disc in his back, which was affecting the nerves in his right rear leg. The doctor prescribed some anti-inflammatory medicine and told us it would be a long recovery.
On the way home, we bought a low-sided litter box so Sputnik could climb in without bumping his leg. But by the time we got back to the house, he couldn’t even stand up. And by nine o’clock that night, Sputnik had lost the use of his right front leg, too.
Tears streaming down my face, I showed Mom his floppy, useless front leg. We both knew his condition was far more serious than the vet thought. Back at the clinic, a different vet tested Sputnik for diabetes, but the test was negative. X-rays showed nothing, and eventually the doctors could only narrow it down to four possibilities: a ruptured disc in Sputnik’s neck, a stroke, an aneurysm, or a brain tumor.
The vets advised us to continue medicating him and hope for the best, but also to prepare for the worst. Back at home, we wrapped towels around all the chair legs so Sputnik wouldn’t hurt himself. I could feel his confusion and fear as he tried to walk and failed miserably. The cat who could once easily leap onto the kitchen counter now couldn’t even take one step without collapsing. Mom and I took turns helping him get to the food dish and the litter box. We carefully repositioned Sputnik’s legs every time they crumpled beneath him and put mats on the hardwood floor to keep him from slipping. We arranged our schedules so he always had supervision, and I even started sleeping on the floor so I could see where he was any time I opened my eyes.
As I watched my cat struggle and suffer, my mind floated back to that moment eleven years earlier when he first started purring in the palm of my hand. And, selfishly, I thought, Eleven years wasn’t enough.
I needed more time, but it didn’t look like I would get it. Sputnik’s left pupil became more dilated than his right one — a condition called Horner’s Syndrome — and the prognosis was grimmer than ever. Emotions raged within me, my own selfish needs battling with doing what was best for my cat… my baby.
While I was in turmoil, Mom held onto hope. It was Mom who said, “Look!” whenever Sputnik took two successful steps in a row. It was Mom who cheered whenever he picked himself up after falling.
At first, I wouldn’t let myself get pulled into her excitement. But soon, the progress was undeniable. One day, he would walk three steps in a row — the next day, four. Despite his dire prognosis, he was getting better. Day by day, Sputnik regained the ability to walk. Eventually, to our very great surprise, he even relearned how to run and jump.
Now thirteen years old and the most spoiled cat imaginable — Mom calls him “The Prince of Everything” — Sputnik is still going strong. He walks, runs, and climbs. We may never know what happened to him, but we do know there’s a chance he could relapse. A brain tumor could start growing again; a blood vessel could rupture.
As I learned thirteen years ago, life can change in an instant. In a single rush of oncoming tires, three kittens lost their mother. In a single day, a rowdy, rambunctious cat lost the ability to walk. Somehow, against all odds, he regained it. Anything could happen tomorrow, but for right now, we’re happy to take things one day — one step — at a time.
~Gretchen Bassier
The Snow Cat
A sense of curiosity is nature’s original school of education.
~Smiley Blanton
A cat adopted in Louisi
ana and raised in Memphis, Tennessee doesn’t have many opportunities to see snow. But a few years ago, my tabby Libby Lou — lovingly referred to as the “worst cat in the world” — finally got her chance to view a winter fairyland.
Surprisingly, Memphis had received a substantial snowfall. And Libby Lou, who loves to look out the windows through our louvered shutters, was very aware that something was up.
I had watched her when she approached the window on that snowy morning. She stopped and stood still. She bobbed her head up and down like someone watching a tennis match in reverse. Her ears twitched back and forth, and her eyes never blinked. She cooed and squeaked. I think she wanted me to know that something very strange had occurred.
She looked at me as if to say, “Is this happening everywhere?” then darted to the next window to find out. She popped open the blinds with her paw, and once again her head followed the movement of the falling flakes.
Of course, she couldn’t stop with only two windows. Was our house surrounded by this white stuff? Chattering loudly, she ran from one room to the next, opening the blinds and making her inspection.
I followed her on this epic journey. “What do you see, girl? What’s that white stuff falling from the sky?”
She’d meow and chirp to let me know that something of great importance was happening outside of each window.
When was the last time I had gotten so excited about snow? I wondered. During my first years in Memphis, I never let the occasional snowfall pass without pulling on my boots, grabbing my camera, and heading out to take pictures. Memphis doesn’t get a lot of snow, but it gets more than south Louisiana, so I was dutifully impressed with the white stuff.
What had changed? When did I start taking the small things for granted and ignoring the many miracles around me? Sure, I was a little older now, but the universe hadn’t lost its splendor. Red sunsets that seemingly set the sky on fire were just as beautiful today. The ocean would still smell as clean, and the roaring waves were just as deafening and majestic.