by Amy Newmark
A young boy with golden curls had come into the shelter with his mom a couple days in a row. He was always so excited to be around the cats, but all he would do was shriek. There was such a bright glow on the boy’s face that it was contagious. When I saw them at the shelter for the third day in a row, I had to talk to the mom. Walking up to her, I smiled and said, “Is there anything I can help you with?” Turning to me with a smile, she told me their story.
Her nine-year-old son was on the autism spectrum and had never spoken a single word in his life. While he couldn’t talk, he did have a love of art, and he loved to draw cats. When his mom had heard about our shelter, she knew she had to bring her son in. I asked if they had any pets at home, and she said they did not. As a single mom of two, she was always working. The days that she was not working, she was running her son from one therapy session to another. Lately, though, her son had been very emotional, and the only thing that calmed him was spending time with our cats. After much consideration, she was strongly considering adopting a cat.
That day, her son fell in love with a little, black cat named Stevie. I was shocked that he was interested in her, given her appearance. Little Stevie had come to us after being severely abused. Some sick person cut off both her ears and let an eye infection get so bad that the eye needed to be removed.
The boy’s mother kept trying to show him other cats, but he kept going back to Stevie. I asked her why she was steering her son away from this cat and she said she was worried about medical bills due to the abuse. I explained that all of our cats see a vet and are healthy upon going up for adoption. Stevie was truly healthy; she just looked different.
Two days later, the boy and his mother returned. She said, “My son has not stopped drawing pictures of Stevie. I talk about the zoo and seeing other animals, and he just points to his drawings. Every time I say Stevie’s name, he smiles and claps his hands. What do I have to do to take this cat home?”
I sat down next to the boy and asked him, “Would you like to take Stevie home with you tonight?” He had such a glow in his eyes and was smiling from ear to ear. Giving me a huge hug he looked at his mom in disbelief, looking for confirmation of what I had asked him. His mother nodded her head and the boy shrieked.
After about five minutes, I had all the paperwork done and Stevie was in a carrier ready to go.
Later that night, we got a happy update on Facebook from the mom:
Tonight we adopted Stevie from your shelter, and tonight my nine-year-old autistic son said his first word EVER. Holding Stevie he looked at me and said “cat.” Did we rescue Stevie, or did Stevie rescue us?
I cried so hard, the words became blurred. Sometimes, we just need a pet as much as that pet needs us.
~Stephanie Jones-McKee
The Pair
There are few things in life more heartwarming than to be welcomed by a cat.
~Tay Hohoff
Overhearing a soft-spoken mom, I turned to see a gorgeous, little girl of about six. She wore her long, auburn hair in a braid down her back, and the turquoise ribbon that secured it matched her jumper.
“My daughter’s name is Emma. She rarely speaks and will often jump up quickly and hug herself if she feels afraid. She’s autistic, you see. We need to find a cat that isn’t put off by her mannerisms, but she truly wants a pet. We’re not allowed to have dogs in our complex.”
“Hi, I’m Kathleen, and I think I can help you,” I stated as I reached out my hand.
“And I’m Michelle,” she added as she shook mine.
“I’ve been a volunteer here for many years, and I know the cats quite well. I’m wondering if Emma would do well with an outgoing personality or one that is gentle but well socialized. Let’s walk around, and I’ll introduce you to our residents. May I hold your hand, Emma?” I asked as I knelt down to her level.
“She’s really not comfortable with strangers,” Michelle explained. Little Emma suddenly jumped behind her mother’s back, and I felt her fear.
“I’m sorry that I startled you, Emma,” I whispered. “Let’s go meet Marty.” Marty was an orange tabby, about four years old, and quite a character. He loved attention, but he hadn’t been adopted because he had only three legs. “Marty was dropped off in a cardboard box outside our back door,” I told Michelle and Emma. “He was terribly ill with an infection from a wound on his leg. Unfortunately, that leg was amputated.”
“Emma, look,” Michelle said as she pointed to Marty. Marty was rubbing against the cage door, hoping to get a lovely scratching session. Emma stood still with her eyes on her pink shoes. “I don’t know if this is going to work out,” Michelle told me.
“We currently have thirty-two cats,” I explained. “Perhaps one will get Emma’s attention.”
Emma’s eyes remained on the ground as we moved from cage to cage and I pointed out various candidates.
“Goodness, I’d love to take them all,” laughed Michelle. “Do you think it would matter if we picked a female over a male?”
“The males tend to be more social, but that is not a hard-and-fast rule. Here’s Shadow. He was shy on arrival, but has turned into a fine boy.”
Again, Emma showed no interest, but then her chin lifted as she stared across the room. “She appears to like one on the other side of the room. May we?” asked Michelle.
Emma was staring at Thomas, and my heart fell. “Thomas has been here for two years,” I explained. “He has remained aloof even though we work with him each day. As you can see, he’s flattened himself against the back wall, and he’s quivering a bit. I don’t think Thomas will work out for Emma.”
Emma continued staring at Thomas. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Emma, Thomas is a very frightened cat,” I warned. “He doesn’t play, and he doesn’t like to be cuddled.”
“Yes,” stated Emma once again as she reached her small hand toward the solid gray cat in his cage.
I believe in miracles, and I witnessed one then. For the first time in his stay at the shelter, Thomas came forward to the front of his cage. “Pretty, pretty,” cooed Emma as she gently slid her hand through the bars. “Yes,” she said for the third time.
Several other volunteers and the shelter manager came forward. “My, my… will you look at that?” the amazed manager noted.
As I turned back to Michelle, I saw that she had tears in her eyes. “Could we possibly adopt Thomas?”
Emma looked into my eyes as she took my hand.
Two months later, I received an envelope at the shelter. Inside were two photographs of Emma and Thomas. The first showed Emma asleep in her bed with Thomas curled up under her chin. The next showed Emma placing Thomas’s food bowl on the kitchen floor as a confident, shiny, gray cat approached.
Dear Kathleen,
I can’t thank you enough for the precious gift of Thomas. Emma and he are inseparable. Thomas is as sweet as can be and has come out of his shell.
When Emma is frightened, Thomas does not run away. He tends to stand quietly by her side.
Emma is talking a bit more, saying words that relate to her pet such as kitty, treat, play, and fun. She attends school each morning and her teachers say she is progressing nicely. Of course, Thomas perches on the back of the couch, awaiting her arrival home.
Please share the photos and note with your kind colleagues. We couldn’t be happier!
With fond regards,
Michelle
~Kathleen Gemmell
Man’s Best Friend
Cats are designated friends.
~Norman Corwin
Cats aren’t exactly known for being “man’s best friend.” Our son and our cat, despite having both been adopted as babies, typified that relationship. It wasn’t for lack of trying on Alec’s part, but Princess never wanted much to do with him. It’s hard to blame her. Princess was already six years old when Alec joined our family, and a haughty teenaged cat and a loud human baby were probably not destined to hit it off. But it didn’t stop Alec from tryi
ng.
As a toddler, Alec trailed after Princess, trying to show his affection with hugs. Once, he followed her behind an armchair. We couldn’t see what happened, but there was a yelp of feline indignation and a squeal of pain from Alec. He emerged with a scratch to remind him, we assume, that it isn’t polite to touch a cat without her permission.
As they grew older, Alec kept trying to get close to Princess. Despite sometimes deigning to play with the laser lights or string he tempted her with, she resolutely refrained from climbing into his lap when the family watched television. As an only child, Alec often wished he had someone to share a room with. But no matter how much Alec wished Princess would sleep in his bed, she continued to curl up next to my pillow every night instead.
Nothing Alec could do seemed to change her first opinion of him — until years later when he was on the cusp of becoming a teenager himself.
Alec had been diagnosed with epilepsy at age four. He had absence seizures — two-to three-second staring spells that most people never noticed. Medicine kept them well under control, but when he turned twelve, his seizure activity increased. This time, increasing the dosage of medicine didn’t control the seizures, and he was admitted to the hospital for a week for testing.
My husband and I took turns staying at the hospital with him while the other went to work. I took the first shift, and when it was my turn to come home a few days later, Princess meowed happily when I walked in the door. I petted her and gave her some attention, but she kept up with her yowling. I checked her food — the other reason she sometimes vocalized — but it was full. So I headed toward the back of the house to the bedroom to unpack my overnight bag. Princess followed, caterwauling all the way.
When we reached the hallway between the bedrooms, she stopped in front of Alec’s door. I could count on one hand the number of times Princess had been in his room in the four years we’d lived in the house, but she refused to move on. She turned in circles, eyes trained on me, meowing all the time. It may be fanciful, but I swear she was asking where Alec was.
When we all came home several days later, Princess wound herself around all of our ankles and mewed and purred until everyone in the family had petted and talked to her. That night, when we sat down to watch television, Princess jumped onto Alec’s lap for the first time. He was cautiously optimistic. “Maybe she’s starting to like me, Mom.”
But after a dozen years of Princess mostly ignoring Alec, I wasn’t getting my hopes up.
While he was in the hospital, Alec began having different types of seizures than the small ones he’d had most of his life. Two months after his hospital stay, he had a tonic-clonic seizure, formerly known as a grand mal seizure, as we were getting ready to leave for school. Then he had another a week later at wrestling practice. Seizures can be scary to witness and even scarier to experience.
Alec was understandably nervous about having another seizure. Like most worries, it seemed to grow bigger at night, and it often took Alec a half-hour or more of tossing and turning before he could fall asleep. The worst part is that sleep-deprivation can trigger seizures. Staying awake worrying about having a seizure was actually putting him at a higher risk of having one. We tried everything to help him relax, but nothing seemed to work.
One night, shortly after Alec went to bed, we heard him talking to someone. I tiptoed back to his room and peeked in. By the light from the hallway, I could see a little lump of black fur on the blankets beside Alec. Princess was keeping him company. He stroked and petted her, speaking softly as he settled down on his pillow.
Smiling, I tiptoed back to the living room to tell my husband. Five minutes later, Alec was asleep. Curled up by his pillow, Princess snoozed, too. For the first time in a long time, Alec had fallen asleep easily. Princess stayed in his bed the whole night that night and many nights afterward.
After twelve years of keeping him at paw’s length, Princess finally decided to be friends with Alec when he needed her most. Just like a true best friend.
~April Serock
Did My Rescue Cat Extend My Life?
Cats are endless opportunities for revelation.
~Leslie Kapp
“Frank, I really do not want to take home a cat this young.” I was seventy-four, and my middle-aged roommate had decided on a beautiful but pudgy one-and-a-half-year-old at the local shelter.
“Look at her,” he said. “She’s like a classy lady from the 1950s. She’s got little, short white gloves on her front paws and little white knee-highs on her back ones. And she moves gracefully for a cat her size.”
After she had tapped us both, in turn, on our hips, I noticed her lovely tortoise or calico (I couldn’t decide which) head and back, some tabby striping on her sides, and her pretty face. But what caught my attention was the fluffiest white bib from her throat, down her belly, to her tail, and on her underside, with an occasional swirl of chocolate. Her belly looked like a hot-fudge sundae.
I noticed that she did not associate with the other cats in the room. She sort of hid behind the open door. After her first tap, she ignored us. Seeing her large size, we quickly realized that when we first entered, she tapped us because she thought we were attendants and might have some treats.
Yes, she was eye-catching, but was I ready for a new cat? And was I prepared for one so young?
Our household’s most recent cat had died only a few months before. We had agreed to wait at least six months to get another. But Frank had medical issues and wanted the feline comfort and companionship. I was seventy-four, though, and having some physical difficulties. Stooping and bending for litter duty was reasonable, but hunting and playing with a frisky, young kitty was probably not in the cards for me.
I loved cats, but I really wanted one that was about five years old, and thus more settled and sedate. On top of that, the house was awash with clutter. A frisky, young cat would be hard to deal with, knocking things over and hiding heaven knows where.
In the end, I told Frank I’d go along with his decision. We took her home, and the scared little thing immediately squeezed under a twin bed in one of the bedrooms of the old, doublewide mobile home.
Three days later, after a constant offering of cat treats, she came out, quickly found and used the litter box, and then hid from us again. For the first week, that’s all she did — come out, eat, use the box, and retreat.
Then she began exploring, very carefully, but she still refused to let Frank near her. It broke his heart. He had picked her out, but she was terrified of him. She would allow me to reach down near her to put down food. She would walk through the house. But if he came near her, she ran.
Meanwhile, we noticed that she was shedding like crazy. Her hair was everywhere. I decided to try brushing her, which she agreed to as long as there were treats. She and I began a nightly ritual of fifteen minutes of brushing and conversation. She felt velvety and silky after each session. I mentioned this to Frank. That’s when she got her name: Silkie.
Just over a year after she came to our home, Frank passed away from a massive heart attack. Silkie had never gotten over her fear of him, and we guessed that a man had mistreated her in the past. Now, with Frank gone, I was officially the only human caregiver for this shy little cat, who was not even three years old.
Doing the math shocked me. She would likely make it to at least fifteen. That was at least twelve more years. I was now seventy-five. This cat was still so needy and afraid that I could not imagine exposing her to another lifestyle change. That meant I would need to live to eighty-seven or so if I wanted to be sure she’d be all right. My health was iffy. Walking and getting up off the floor after our brushing sessions were tricky. I had a quad cane I used everywhere. My bones and joints ached often. I wasn’t yet on any meds, but I was having a harder time talking my doctor out of them.
When Frank passed on, I realized that I had to change my eating habits. Frank was a typical “guy,” and the fridge was stocked with beef, pork, sausage, provolone, and Swiss chee
se. I didn’t have much money, so I couldn’t just toss things out, but I slowly replaced the bad foods with good ones.
The change in my food, plus all the running around I had to do after Frank’s passing, had a nice benefit. I lost twenty pounds that first year. The extra activity coupled with the weight loss made a big difference in my mobility. Now, I only use the quad cane for really long walks. I walk farther, although not as far as I’d like. My knee rarely hurts these days.
And Silkie finally climbed on my lap after a couple more years, and I heard her purr for the first time.
She is still not the most affectionate cat I’ve had, but she has made great progress. She stays away from me when I cry, but she seems to know when I’m stressed and need a break. I will often drop things or feel stress building, and suddenly she’s at my ankle, looking up with a little meow. I’ve learned to take this as a cue to stop whatever I’m doing and rest and recharge for a few minutes or a half-hour.
This month will mark four years since Silkie’s arrival. I’ve kept off those twenty pounds that I lost. I walk better. I’m almost eighty and I only take one medication — a very low-level blood-pressure medication. I haven’t taken a pain pill in over a year.
Has Silkie extended my life? Who knows? I do know she has enhanced it, and I cherish each minute with this still-aloof, pudgy shelter cat that was everything I thought I did not want. She turned out to be everything I needed.
~Evelyn Shamay Mayfield
Healing a Broken Heart
When I am feeling low, all I have to do is watch my cats and my courage returns.