by Amy Newmark
We spent the evening telling stories about Gizmo, the many times we mistook his voice for a baby’s cry, or a bird, or a stranger waiting outside the door. I always thought of Gizmo as a stray, but now I saw how wrong I had been. We were his family, all of us, together.
Summer changed to fall, and Mike returned to his usual rounds, staking tiny, glowing pumpkins along the walkway. He shimmied up the lamppost and attached a witch who seemed to have collided with the pole while riding her broomstick.
One evening, in the early darkness, Mike saw me walking upstairs and beckoned me to come closer.
“You’ll never believe who’s here,” he said, raising his eyebrows ominously.
I shrugged, and then he told me what happened: “I was up early one morning because I have so much trouble sleeping these days. I heard a sound, but I thought, No, that can’t be what I think it is.
He had my full attention.
“I pulled back the curtains, and there he was!”
“Gizmo? How?”
Mike shook his head with wonder.
“Then, who’s in there?” I thumbed toward the courtyard.
“Dunno. Rest in peace, whoever you are,” he called out to the grass. Sure enough, the next day I watched Gizmo curling around Mike’s legs as he set out a fresh tray of food.
“See this notch in his ear? See that white patch on his chin? Yup. None other.”
I leaned my head back and laughed.
That night, as I busied myself making dinner, I was thinking over Gizmo’s life and death, and life again.
When I heard him outside the next morning, it was uncanny how his voice sounded like language, and his message seemed perfectly clear: Do not despair! You are not alone, he seemed to say, and neither am I.
~Robin Jankiewicz
The Cat-fish
There are no ordinary cats.
~Colette
I sauntered toward the old barn and idly glanced around, expecting to see our barn cat. Ginger normally met me midway from the gate and meowed to remind me that it was suppertime. Her rambunctious kitten was generally close behind. Oddly, there was no sign of either.
As I opened the barn door, an unexplainable sense of dread flowed through me. I tried to rationalize that Ginger had probably taken her new kitten out on his first hunting expedition. A faint mew from their favorite sleeping spot dispelled that hope.
Ginger and her kitten were snuggled together in a tight little ball that only cats can accomplish. She raised her head, and dejectedly laid it back down. I picked up her limp and lifeless kitten. He struggled to lift his head, which was swollen to nearly twice its normal size.
I grabbed the kitten and sped down the highway toward the vet clinic, which was eighteen miles away. Dr. Wyand was locking the door to his clinic when I arrived, but he turned back without question and unlocked the door as my car approached.
After careful examination, he parted the kitten’s soft orange-and-white fur to reveal what looked like puncture marks on the head and neck. He then repeated the demonstration on the other side. While it was of no significance to me, Dr. Wyand nodded knowingly. The kitten had been attacked by a hawk, and the puncture marks were from its talons.
After a long pause, he said, “I can treat the infection, but I have no way of predicting what permanent damage he might suffer.” He opened the eyelids to reveal nystagmus, an involuntary oscillation of the eyeball that indicates neurological damage. Dr. Wyand broke the silence and said, “He obviously put up the fight of his life to get away from the hawk. He deserves a chance to put up a second fight.”
Two days later, the swelling had reduced considerably, but the once playful, energetic kitten remained weak and wobbly. We had done what we could and now he needed to heal. Only time would tell how much neurological function he would recover.
I knew Chico would miss his mother, but recovery in the barn was not an option. He could not walk more than a couple of steps. His front legs would go in one direction, and his hind legs in another.
Chico would lose his balance in the litter box, so bathing him in the bathroom sink became our daily routine. One day, when I placed him in the sink of warm water, he began moving his legs. It was a swimming motion that showed actual coordination, and our first sign of what might be true progress.
Over the next several weeks, his coordination improved, and the need for his bath routine ceased. He could now walk relatively well, but he had not fully regained his ability to travel in a straight line. His hind legs often trailed off at a 45-degree angle to his front legs. Seeing a cat toy and being able to go directly to it was a feat that eluded him. But he was equally happy to stumble over one of his favorite toys when he least expected it.
The next goal he set for himself was the sofa! The synchronization required for jumping had not returned. Christmas Day, however, offered Chico another opportunity. A gift box sitting adjacent to the sofa was low enough for Chico to jump on, and from there he made it to the sofa. It was another milestone in his recovery.
One night, after a particularly stressful day at work, I decided to take a nice leisurely bath. After I filled the tub, I decided to get a glass of wine, and when I returned to the bathroom, I was shocked. Chico was swimming in the bathtub. Did he know that water was good therapy? Did he miss his playtime in the sink? Or, more likely, did he try to jump onto the side of the tub, and a lack of coordination landed him in the water?
Regardless of the reason, swimming in the bathtub became a routine. While I preferred he didn’t swim before I had a bath, we had an agreement that he could have his therapy session afterward.
Because Chico was deaf as a result of the neurological damage, we taught him to walk on a leash at a young age. He wasn’t allowed to wander on his own, so we went for walks in the grassy vacant lot next to our house, and I took him to the farm to visit his mother. He learned to enjoy riding in a vehicle.
By summer, other than the deafness that he had learned to accept, he was pretty much a normal cat and very much a part of the family. When it was decided that we should go on an RV adventure to see the Pacific Ocean, Chico was included without question.
He found his favorite spot on the dashboard of the RV and entertained many a service-station attendant by trying to catch the squeegee through the front window. In the evenings, we stayed in RV parks and would take Chico, wearing his harness and leash, for a walk.
After a long day inside the RV, I took Chico for a walk along the shore when we reached our final destination. He was normally a very obedient cat on the leash, but this time he kept tugging and trying to get closer to the water. It became clear that he was determined to experience the biggest bathtub he had ever seen!
And why not? I walked out into ankle-deep water and let Chico enjoy his now familiar dog paddle. He seemed unconcerned with the occasional small wave. After several minutes, I decided it was time to end the adventure. I cradled the soggy cat in my arms as we headed back to the RV. I was unaware of the semi-circle of people who had lined up along the beach and were watching us. As I approached them, I felt that I owed them some sort of explanation, so I blurted out, “But he WANTED to go for a swim!”
So if you ever hear of what sounds like a far-fetched story about a woman from Canada who took her cat to swim in the Pacific Ocean… well, that cat tale is actually true!
~Brenda Leppington
The Loner
Fiercely feral or determinedly domesticated, the cat does the deciding and the humans do the abiding.
~Author Unknown
Our family moved to Sarasota, Florida when I was ten and my sister Nikki was nine. Our new home had a beautiful lake behind the back yard, with woods on both sides. Nikki and I loved feeding the wildlife that visited the lake: Mallard ducks, whistling ducks and the resident Pekin duck, which had been left behind by the previous owner.
One particular morning, Nikki and I noticed a small, brown tiger cat watching us from a distance. As soon as we approached it, the cat darted back into the woods. This
went on for about a week. Our mom suggested we put dry cat food on our back patio and see what happened.
That worked. We put out food, went to school, and came home to find the food was gone. We were so happy that our new friend, whom we named Brownie, had decided to join our “Breakfast Club.” Every morning before school, Nikki and I would go out to feed the ducks, and Brownie would always watch from a distance, waiting for breakfast to be left on the patio.
Our mom used our new interest in the feral cat as a teaching tool and made us each write a report on feral cats.
One morning, when I was about to open the back door, Nikki called out, “There’s Brownie!” Sure enough, Brownie was sitting on the patio, and behind the cat, scampering around in the tall grass, were four adorable, black-and-white kittens. Nikki and I could not believe our eyes! Brownie was a mommy.
Six months passed, and the kittens got bigger and stronger. Not one of them looked like its mother. Each kitten had some pattern of black and white in its coloring. One kitten, in particular, stood out from the rest. It was the largest of the kittens, and it had long hair and black lips. Yes, it truly looked like someone had applied black lipstick.
Nikki and I also noticed that this kitten was extremely elusive. While the other kittens allowed us to pet them, this one always waited until we were inside to come over and eat. He never played with the other kittens. It seemed to me that he liked being feral and was not going to be turned into a pampered, domesticated cat.
From the research we did for our mother, we knew we had to humanely trap, spay, neuter and vaccinate each of the cats, including Brownie. Mom introduced us to a local feral-cat rescuer, and soon our volunteer days began. Nikki and I were able to successfully trap and return to our back yard all but the cat with the black lips.
To our family’s amazement, all the cats stayed by our home for many years to come. Each had its own personality, and Nikki and I gave each one its own name. We named the elusive one Duma, meaning “pride” in Polish. Unlike the others, Duma would disappear for weeks and return unexpectedly, with what seemed like a prideful attitude. Nikki and I always worried about Duma when he was gone, all alone in the woods with a major road nearby.
Then came that day we all dreaded. Nikki and I were putting out everyone’s breakfast when we looked up and saw Duma was limping across the back yard. He was dragging one of his front paws. He still would not come close to us, so we quickly put out his food, went inside, and hoped he would come and eat.
As we watched out the window, Duma came closer, and then we saw the extent of his injury. His whole left shoulder area was bloody and not moving at all; his paw was badly mangled. The other cats appeared fearful as he approached them.
Nikki and I started to cry, as we knew in our hearts that he was too feral to allow us to help him. Duma became even more elusive, striking out at any of his cat family that would try and comfort him. Several weeks passed, and one morning we watched Duma walk slowly into the woods after he ate. Nikki and I were sure this would be the last we saw of him. By now, his long hair was matted and dirty. It was just too painful for him to twist around and clean himself as cats do. His paw looked infected, too.
Five years passed with no sign of Duma. Nikki and I were active with our local feral-cat rescue program. Once a month, on a Sunday morning, we would head to a local vets’ office at 6:30. Six veterinarians and twenty other volunteers would donate their time to spay/neuter approximately 100 feral cats that had been trapped throughout the county. All the cats, after passing their post-surgical screening, would be returned to the area where they were trapped.
One particular Sunday, Nikki and I were helping to clean up after a very successful surgical day when one of the vets came out of the recovery room and announced that they had a cat that could not be released back into the community. This cat had to have a front leg removed due to an old injury. Its paw had been worn away up to the ankle joint. The vet went on to say that this cat was very “wild” and would not permit anyone near his cage. The cat would be euthanized if no one felt they could foster him safely.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Could this be Duma? I ran and got Nikki. We made our way to the recovery room and convinced the vet to let us see the cat. He warned us that this cat was extremely aggressive and not to put our hands near the cage. As we got closer, we could see this large, black-and-white, longhaired cat pinned to the back of the cage with fear.
I softly called out “Duma” and the cat raised its head. Nikki and I began to cry as soon as we saw those beautiful black lips. He began to purr, louder than anything I had ever heard. The vet was amazed. We told him the whole story, and even though he was impressed with Duma’s response, he warned us not to get our hopes up. He said this cat has been through some pretty horrible times, and would probably never be able to be domesticated. We called our mom and took Duma home that day.
It has been four years now, and from the minute Duma’s eyes met Nikki’s and mine in that recovery room, he has never been elusive or showed one sign of being aggressive.
Our back patio is now screened in and Duma lies there all day, watching the ducks and his littermates, who are still around. They will lie right next to him with only a screen separating them.
And now, our formerly feral feline seems to be just as happy to lead the life of a domestic housecat. When Duma sees Nikki or me getting ready for bed, he jumps right up on one of our beds and settles in for the night. One thing’s for sure: Duma’s in charge of his own life!
~Tori Cleaves
Dog People
A dog, I have always said, is prose; a cat is a poem.
~Jean Burden
“A kitten just fell out of the hayloft.” It was a simple statement, but one that didn’t sink in as I brushed my horse in our small barn.
“What?” I asked my husband, Mike. I was busy getting ready to train with the horse and slightly annoyed by the interruption.
“There’s a kitten on the ground.”
Sure enough, right beside my horse’s front right hoof, lay a mewing day-old kitten. It was mid-October, and the temperature was in the fifties. Mike gently picked up the little thing and said, “It feels cold.”
Earlier, we had heard what we thought were birds chirping. Instead, it was the small kitten, squeaking. It fell fifteen feet from the hayloft and landed right in front of my husband. Had it fallen a few minutes earlier or later, neither of us would have been there.
The day before, Mike and I had decided that we would be done with cats once our eighteen-year-old cat passed away. Our children were grown, and I was tired of litter-box duty. Besides, we now lived on Mike’s family farm that was close to Route 9, a death trap for any feline that frequented the outdoors. And we considered ourselves to be dog people anyway.
After we found the tiny black kitten, whose eyes were still closed, we searched the hayloft upstairs. There were no more kittens, and the mother cat, who we suspected was the black cat we had seen around the barn, was gone, too.
We took the kitten into the house and set up an electric heating pad under a green afghan my aunt had made me years ago, I snuggled the kitten while we called area shelters and researched how to care for her. I learned that if we could find another nursing mother cat, she might accept the kitten as one of her own. Many telephone calls later, we learned no one had a nursing mother cat. I researched online and found a homemade kitten formula recipe that I made and fed to the kitten with an eyedropper. The kitten was hungry and ate quickly. Then the little ball of fur yawned, stretched, and fell asleep on the warm afghan in my lap.
The next day, I visited our neighbors in search of the mother cat. One of them knew the mother because she lived behind their house. The kitten’s best chance for survival was to reunite with her mother so I brought the kitten over there. The neighbor promised to make sure the mother cat accepted the kitten. I didn’t know if the kitten would survive, but my husband and I had done what we could.
That winter we h
ad record-breaking snowfall in Maine. It seemed snow fell every other day, sometimes more than twelve inches at a time. During one blizzard, I returned home early from my job as a child and family therapist. Mike was already home plowing and shoveling snow.
I came in the front door to find my husband standing there smiling. He asked if I remembered when we agreed not to have any more cats because we were really dog people. There on the kitchen floor was a tiny, black kitten playing with our large Lab mix, Luke. Mike explained that when he started shoveling the snow away from the barn doors, he saw a kitten running inside. He found her sitting on the steps to the hayloft. She did not run when he picked her up and placed her in his coat. He couldn’t believe she just sat there in his coat, happy to be warm, purring while he finished plowing snow.
The kitten appeared to be eight to nine weeks old. Could this be the same kitten we had helped earlier in the fall? The kitten playfully batted Luke’s ears, although the Lab looked a bit nervous and uneasy. Upon closer investigation, the kitten’s eyes appeared to be glued shut. They were severely infected. The drainage crusted over the fur surrounding her eyes, and she could not open them.
I washed the kitten’s eyes gently with warm water until she could open her eyes. A quick trip to the veterinarian provided antibiotic ointment for her eyes, de-wormer and her first shots. We named her Phoebe.
Phoebe quickly became part of our lives. She adored the old afghan — the green one we had used when we first rescued her — which happened to be on our king-sized bed on colder nights. As soon as I got done brushing my teeth and walked to my bed, a black flash would bolt onto that blanket for some playtime.
Soon enough, the tiny, black kitten became a beautiful, sleek cat that I dearly cared for. We always made sure that our windows had screens in them in the summer so she could not get outside due to the closeness of the major roadway. But we had a family member staying with us who took out a window screen to place a fan in the window. One day, I noticed Phoebe was not around and found the window upstairs left open. I searched for her for weeks, to no avail. I feared she had been injured or killed on the road.