by Amy Newmark
This lady began coming in every day around 3:00 in the afternoon. While at the shelter, she would sit in front of Sally’s cage and talk to her. I would occasionally leave the room, finding it rude to eavesdrop, but some days I stayed and listened. She’d tell Sally about her day, and talk about how if she came home with her, she’d have a good life.
Unfortunately, she didn’t want to adopt a cat that was old and might not be around long. She worried about the cat’s odd eye and other possible ailments, including Kidney failure. It was an understandable concern. My boss decided to get blood work on the cat, which the lady insisted she would pay for. At first, the blood work looked good, but a week later we had no choice but to tell her we had gotten a bad sample. We would have to draw blood again, and it would be at least another week before we had any answers.
I overheard the lady speaking to Sally that afternoon, and I had to leave the room as tears pricked my eyes at the soft, secretive words of one elderly citizen to another. “I know how it feels. I’ve had to get blood work done a few times myself.” Sally blinked lovingly at the lady as she curled in her lap. The lady stroked her almost absentmindedly. “Don’t worry. I’m old, too. I know how it feels.”
After weeks of tender moments, agonizing waiting and many, many tests, the lady did end up adopting Sally. I secretly worried Sally wouldn’t last another year.
A year later, I was proven wrong when the lady returned to the shelter and gave me several photos of Sally, whose name was now Cassie. She still wouldn’t use the litter box all the time, but the lady didn’t mind. She said a few messes were worth Cassie’s company.
She told me she wanted me to know how Cassie was doing since she remembered that the old cat had been one of my favorites. She was right. I had been so concerned that no one would see past that sweet cat’s age and her minor issues. All it took was one wise elderly lady to see the potential in another very sweet senior citizen. And just a bit of faith that everything would work out like it was meant to.
~Ashley Ledlow
Blue Eyes and Elbows
She clawed her way into my heart and wouldn’t let go.
~Terri Guillemets
Late one Sunday evening, I was suddenly captivated by a pair of baby blue eyes! The Siamese cat, Cleo, had such a sweet, expressive face I figured the Petfinder website posting had to be an old one. Surely someone had already adopted her!
But what if she was still available? I had to know for certain.
According to the posting, Cleo was being featured at a Tampa Petco. All through the night, restless and unable to sleep, I counted the eleven long hours until they opened so I could ask about her. Over and over, I returned to look at Cleo’s photo on the website — there was just something about those beautiful blue eyes.
When I made the call, a Petco employee gave me the great news that Cleo was still there, but then I was immediately cautioned.
“Cleo may have been spoken for, so I’ll need to double-check with Mary, the lady from the rescue agency, who handles adoptions.”
I provided my contact information as the waiting game began anew, and tried remaining hopeful while reminding myself that if Cleo had already found her new home, then maybe it was for the best. But I just couldn’t get those blue eyes out of my mind.
Fortunately, Mary was prompt in returning my call. “Hi, were you calling about Cleo?”
“Yes! Is she still available for adoption? I hope so!”
When Mary didn’t immediately respond, my heart sank. Was I too late? A few excruciating seconds passed as I waited, trying to be patient.
“Oops, sorry, I got distracted there for a minute,” Mary laughed. “A kitten I’m fostering was shredding some newspaper. Anyway, yes, Cleo’s still available. She’s very petite and looks like a Siamese, but has the extra toes of a Hemingway cat.”
“A Siamese Hemingway sounds adorable! Ernest Hemingway’s home in Key West is the only place where I’ve seen a polydactyl cat.”
“Oh, Cleo’s quite special! I saved her and her three kittens in the nick of time just one day before they were to be put to sleep, and the little survivor was quick to show her gratitude,” said Mary. “When I brought her into foster care, she not only nursed her own babies, but also four other kittens. At only eleven months old, her life has already been a busy one!”
But Mary also had something else to tell me.
“Listen, I must be honest with you. Cleo was born with misaligned front legs, so she’s unable to walk on her toes like other cats.”
I was stunned. My husband, Bill, and I had recently lost a beloved cat to an illness. Did we dare take in another with potential medical challenges, only to face heartbreak once more? My questions tumbled out as I tried to understand.
“Can she get around by herself? Will she need to be carried to the litter box and her food bowls?”
“Oh, Cleo’s not disabled. She’s just different and very adaptable,” Mary quickly assured me. “She’s learned to walk on her elbows instead of her toes!”
“That’s hard for me to imagine,” I said quietly.
Mary sighed. “So many people have seen Cleo’s photo and were interested at first, until they came to see her in person, watched her walk, and decided not to adopt her. Trust me. She is healthy and very adoptable. All she needs is for someone to believe in her.”
I sat quietly, trying to picture the sweet-faced cat with the beautiful baby blue eyes walking on her elbows.
“We understand if you need time to think about it,” Mary said kindly. “But in the meantime, if somebody decides to adopt her, I’ll have to let her go with them. There are so many homeless animals we’re trying to place.”
I promised to call Mary back. After discussing everything with Bill, we were both touched by the story of a tiny cat with the big heart and lots of courage. We decided to give little Cleo the chance she deserved. Within an hour, my mom and I started on the seventy-five-minute trip to Tampa.
In my excitement, I forgot to call Mary to let her know we were on our way.
Mom and I drove down I-4 to Tampa, excitedly talking about Cleo. We wanted to give her a new name that better described her special legs and feet, so we tried out names like “Digit” and “Toes.” I’d read that some polydactyl cats have what is known as “mitten paws,” with an extra toe attached in a thumb-like appearance, so the name “Thumbelina” also came to mind.
Suddenly, a warning light flared. We were low on gas. After locating a gas station, I looked at my map, only to realize I had made a wrong turn! We needed to double-back. To make matters worse, it had begun to rain.
Rush-hour traffic ground to a halt as the skies opened up with a heavy rainstorm. The afternoon turned into early evening. Cellphone service failed to connect. I was in tears, upset with myself for not contacting Mary before we left home, frustrated for not paying attention to the map. What if someone adopted Cleo before we got there?
Finally, the exit sign came into view. We drove into the Petco parking lot and breathed a sigh of relief. As we entered the store, a lady walked past, wheeling a cart.
“I just adopted the Siamese cat,” she said proudly, and pointed at the cat carrier nestled inside her cart.
My heart sank. We were too late. Tears rolled down my cheeks. As Mom tried consoling me, a store employee approached and asked if we needed help.
“We drove a long way to see Cleo, but a lady just told us she adopted the Siamese cat,” I said, tearfully.
The employee smiled. “Don’t worry! She adopted the last of Cleo’s kittens, but Cleo is still here!”
We couldn’t believe our ears! We followed the employee to a room with cages, all empty except for one.
Mary arrived with a smile and gently placed Cleo on the floor. When those beautiful baby blue eyes met mine, tears fell anew. As the little cat shuffled pigeon-toed on her elbows to joyfully greet us with sweet friendliness, Mom described the scene perfectly by saying that Cleo reminded her of a little girl trying to walk in
her mother’s shoes.
Cleo didn’t protest when I scooped her up and lovingly stroked her special legs. From that moment on, she was ours.
Her large paws resemble catchers’ mitts, so we decided to rename her Mitzi, and she never fails to amaze us with her adaptability. There’s so much she can do! She can sit by tucking her longest front leg inside her hip to keep from toppling over. She can pluck toys from her toy box and bat them around by swinging her elbows like hockey sticks. She can sit up like a meerkat and daintily nibble treats from an outstretched hand. Most importantly, she can bravely overcome her challenges in her own special way, and she never fails to bring us joy.
~Lisa Faire Graham
Tea Cozy
If there were to be a universal sound depicting peace, I would surely vote for the purr.
~Barbara L. Diamond
I looked down at the furious, grey-and-white tabby and sighed. Feral cats never make rescue easy. Whether because of human cruelty or just an instinct to survive, most seem convinced that people are terrible predators who are looking to eat them.
So it was with Chicory. Taken off the street as an adolescent and brought to my home late one night, Chicory was terrified. She crouched under the sink in my bathroom and hissed. She mostly hissed at me, but she also tried threatening the toilet, shampoo bottles, and laundry basket for good measure.
“I hate this part,” I said over my shoulder to the rescuer.
The lady nodded and sighed. “Do your best with her. We think she’s hopeless.”
Packing up the carrier, the rescuer turned to the door and said, “We can always send her to a big, heated barn with other cats, if need be. Some just can’t be habituated to humans.”
I shook my head and looked back at Chicory. “No, I think we’ll be okay.” The little tabby smacked at the toilet brush and then hissed as it fell over. “Well, we’ll give it a go, anyway.”
As soon as the front door closed, I turned to the cat and said, “We are going to get something straight, okay? I’m a vegetarian and in no way interested in putting you in my salad.”
There was more hissing and a baleful glare. The look said, “I lick myself all the time, and I KNOW I am delicious. You can’t fool me, horrible creature.”
Shrugging, I left her alone with a cardboard box, a litter pan, and a small bowl of food. From experience, I knew it was best to give her some space.
The following months proved difficult. Chicory, or Chic as I came to call her, searched out every hiding place available, and then glared up at me from the shadows, with cold fury in her eyes. At the same time, she would anxiously watch my hands for any sign of tin cans. She rather liked those. She knew that I was the “Keeper of the Cans,” and she would have to endure my presence to get any of the delicious fish she so prized.
In this, I was merciless. I refused to put down food unless she came close to me. Secretly, I was looking for the opportunity to pet her while feeding her treats, hoping to cement in her mind the maternal role I had taken on. Grooming was something a mother did, and a cat that will accept touch from a human is halfway to accepting that person as a friend.
But Chic was having none of it. As soon as the food was placed in her bowl, she would dart forward, grab it in her mouth, and disappear under the bed, leaving little blobs of salmon behind like a breadcrumb trail.
If I got down on my hands and knees and asked her how her dinner was, she would hiss, mouth full of fish, and retreat farther into the darkness.
“You are not Gretel, you know,” I would say. “And I am not the witch, fattening you up for the oven.”
There would be no reply, save the sound of smacking lips.
I had to acknowledge that she was a tough case, but I wasn’t ready to give up. With as many toys and treats as I could afford, I tried to bribe her to come near me, if only for a few seconds.
“Who’s my little sweetie?” I would ask, waving a toy at her. “Who’s my little sweetie-girl?” But Chic only eyed my attempts with disdain and turned away.
It was the harsh Canadian winter that came to my rescue. Chic had taken up residence under the bed for warmth and would rarely leave, except for three times a day when the wonderful tin cans were in evidence. Then, braving the chilly air and the scary human, she would creep up to sit just beyond arm’s reach, her eyes firmly glued on my face. If I tried to touch her, she would bend away from my hand, her spine a sine wave.
Sighing in resignation one frosty morning, I left her to her breakfast and made myself a pot of tea. Then, realizing I hadn’t cleaned the cat box, I put the teapot on my desk and left the room.
When I returned a few minutes later, I found Chic perched on the desk beside my teacup.
“Hey,” I said. “Whatcha doing?”
Chic looked at me, but didn’t move.
I blinked. Usually, when caught stomping on the computer keyboard or nosing around my notebooks, she would fling herself off the desk and flee to the bedroom, but that day she held her ground.
I took a few steps forward, suddenly worried that something was wrong.
“Chic? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Still, Chicory did not move, but only glared at me, her face full of wild ferocity.
Slowly, I approached the desk and stared at her, uncertain what to make of her behaviour.
And then I saw what was happening and had to bite my lips to not burst out laughing.
Chicory had appropriated the hot teapot. She had wrapped her tail around the base and was sitting so that her little feet were pressed against porcelain. Her fluffy chest rested atop the lid, while her tiny belly squashed against the side.
Despite the little space heater that ran night and day, it seemed that the apartment was just too cold for her.
As I smiled, it struck me that my moment had finally come. Hoping I was right, I reached out and brushed my fingers across her ears. Torn between delightful warmth and insistent fear, Chicory sat perfectly still, uncertain as to what to do.
“Sweetie-girl,” I said, scratching her chin.
“Sweetie-love.” Confusion plain on her face, she studied me, and then, to my utter delight, Chicory closed her eyes and allowed me to pet her. It only lasted a moment, though. In a flash, she was gone.
It was enough.
Each day of the seven-month winter, Chic and I would meet over the teapot. Defiance in every line of her body, she clung to the pot, waiting for the dreadful touch she so feared, but unwilling to leave her wonderful warm spot. At first, she trembled under my hand. But as the days turned into weeks, she began to lean toward me and even purred once.
By spring, after the teapot had lost its allure, Chic and I had developed a morning ritual.
“Who’s my sweetie?” I would ask, stroking her chin with one hand while holding a teacup in the other.
“I am,” she seemed to say, her eyes half closed. “Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s me.”
Then one eye would open, and she would fix me with it.
“Remember when you used to want to eat me?”
~Alex Lester
Soul Mates
Every life should have nine cats.
~Author Unknown
The cat raised her head and stared at me through bleary eyes, releasing a soft, squeaky mew. She’d wedged her twenty striped pounds into a tiny kitty bed she shared with a small, orange kitten. She was bald from her withers to her tail where her fur had been shaved, and runny gook ran from her eyes and nose. I stroked her head gently as she squeaked again, the smallness of her voice a contrast to the enormity of her body.
The cat dropped her head back into the kitty bed, a soft raspy purr vibrating her white chest. I wasn’t in the market for another cat — I already had one, Percy, and a German Shepherd named Tess — but this cat tugged at my heartstrings like I hadn’t felt since my Blue-Point Himalayan, Mindi, passed away.
I knew better than to visit the shelter just to socialize with the cats. I can walk into one of those places, visit the d
og kennels, and leave empty-handed. The cat room is a completely different story. Homeless, unloved cats bother me in a way no other animal does. I love all animals, and all unloved, abused animals hurt my heart, but there is something about a roomful of unwanted cats.
Maybe it’s because in Wyoming it’s easier to find homes for dogs. Few people want cats, and no one thinks cats are important enough to pay for the surgery of fixing them to prevent more litters. Cats are considered pests and vermin. They are used for pest control in barns, but otherwise they are overlooked. When I visit the cat room of the shelter, I know the kittens will find homes, and the friendlier adult cats probably will, too. They run to greet visitors who might be potential homes.
But a half-bald, twenty-pound cat with an upper respiratory infection has little hope.
I alerted a shelter employee to the cat’s illness.
“I think one of the cats is sick. She has a runny nose and gooky eyes.”
The shelter employee checked the cat and sighed, shaking her head sadly. “We’ll have to quarantine her.”
“Can you tell me about her?” I asked.
“Her name is Puckett. We named her after Wolfgang Puck, the chef, because she’s so fat. We found her under a bush, her fur completely matted. That’s why she’s been shaved. We thought she belonged to someone because she’s so big, but no one ever came to claim her.”
I didn’t think long about it. “I don’t know if I can adopt another cat, but can I foster her?” I asked. “She’s just so pitiful. I feel sorry for her.”
The shelter employee’s eyes lit up. “No one’s showed her any interest. Would you like to apply to be a foster home?”
I agreed immediately. I filled out the application, interviewed with the volunteer who works with foster homes, and took Puckett home a week later. I had to keep her quarantined because she was sick, and I didn’t want her to infect Percy. I kept her in my guest room with a litter box, food, and a water bowl, and I visited her every day. She ate and drank a little, but slept most of her days. Both Percy and Tess knew there was someone new in the guest room, and they both camped outside the room, sniffing and pawing under the door. Sometimes, I could hear Puckett mewing her high-pitched, squeaky meow behind the door, and Percy would respond, yowling in his deep voice. Tess snuffled underneath the door and kept vigil at night, waiting for the time she could meet the new guest.