Cats

Awhile back, my friend L posted pictures of things that made her glad. One of them featured Simone in the garden, and I felt a tug at my heart. I miss Simone so much, but she is no longer my cat (if she ever was), and this is not a good environment for an adventurous outdoor cat, anyway. She may be street smart, but I don't think she can acquire the feral knowledge of dealing with coyotes, bobcats, and bears. Or rattlers and hawks for that matter.

So, she will need to stay in her luxurious digs with H and S, who treat her like the little princess she is.

Meanwhile, I have been nudging EB to get a cat. She wants to wait on getting a dog until she is a full-time resident, as she wants to bond with the dog and be the alpha. But, she is becoming amenable to the idea of a cat for the here and now. E wants the furry companionship, and so do I.

This longing became acute last week. I was in the Olympic Peninsula, visiting J and H. Their friend, A, who lives on their property in a house they built for him, was scheduled to get an indoor cat from the local shelter, PFOA. H and I drove with him, with strict instructions from J to check out the setup:  they are donating money to several shelters, and she wanted to be sure it was well run.

Well, those cats have it great.The shelter is located in a rambling two-story house, situated in the country near Sequim. The outdoor balconies and patios are encased in plexiglass and bird-netting.  Each room has access to the outside, and each room is carefully populated with a reasonable number of cats and kittens who get along with each other reasonably well. They have their own beds, climbing perches, and toys. The "wands" are kept outside the room, so they don't choke on them, and each room has hand sanitizers which are to be used upon entrance and exit. The kitten room has the added precaution of foot protectors, which go over the shoes.

A was pretty specific in his requirements: a de-clawed old-lady cat. They live in the woods, on a bluff overlooking the Straits of Juan de Fuca, so he wanted an indoor cat that would not outlive him or destroy his furniture. His previous cats had been ripping up the carpet, and he himself is 89 years old.

The shelter had one cat that fit the bill.  While not a proponent of de-clawing (the adoption papers specify that cats will NOT be de-clawed), they do of course sometimes receive cats in that condition. So, Orange (a not very imaginative name, but better than Cutie Pie), received a visit from us.  She was shy, downright unfriendly in my book, and, after standing on the perch to be petted, she stalked outside, out of range.  A didn't mind:  his expectation was that she would, like his previous cats, spend two weeks under the bed before deciding to be sociable.  So, the deal was cut, and we went back upstairs to the living room to look at the papers.  It was a long process, and I opted to go visit the kittens.  They were, of course, adorable.  One skinny, pale red tabby was dominant:  she climbed up my back, draped herself on my shoulders, nibbled at my hair, and purred exceptionally loudly.  Here ears were like sails.  She kept the other kittens at bay, but they swarmed around anyway, and I petted a very soft all-grey, a sweet-faced calico tabby, a black cat with a bent tail, and a smart-looking shy tabby.  The tuxedo kittens stayed out of range, for the most part.

Eventually the dominant one found the lavender that I had put over one ear, and she took it away and started batting it around like it was a mouse, growling as the other kittens came near.  That gave me a moment to focus on the other purr-balls.  Eventually I retrieved the lavender and left the room, to find the paperwork still going on.  The kittens came out onto the balcony which encircled the living room, and I took some pix through the window.  I sent this one to EB...

Orange was retrieved and put into a loaner traveling cage:  she was a huge 16+ pound red tabby, and the cage A had brought was inadequate to the task.  I sat on the steps as they discussed final plans:  a mentor would be calling later to see how things were going, he had sample foods and instructions for gradually adjusting the diet, he made plans for returning the cage.  Orange mewed fairly constantly, and I put my fingers through the mesh, speaking soothingly.  I decided her name was Maggie, and told A so.  He was offended:  "We won't know her name until she tells us."  His previous cat was called Her Royal Highness Princess Pettipaticah (or something like that, no one could remember it), so I braced myself for something equally awful.  (It turned out to be Countess Brewsterbury (?) O'Bama.  O'Bama because she's Irish, and because he knew it would irritate J, which it did.)

Later in the day, A came over for drinks and snacks and I asked how Maggie was doing.  Ignoring the name, he said, "She's disappeared."  Apparently he had opened the cage in a middle area between bedroom and bathroom.  She sat in there while he set up food in the former and a litter box in the latter.  When he returned to her cage, she was gone,  An exhausted search (under his bed and in various rooms) netted nothing.  He was clearly distraught about it, so I went back with him to search.  No luck.  I checked all the open rooms exhaustively, looked in cupboards with doors a cat could maneuver, looked on top of furniture, glanced through the closed rooms and closets, looked in the kitchen sink and the bathtub.  No signs of her anywhere.  He said, "This is terrible!  I wish you hadn't come over, now I know she's really gone."  I said, "She'll turn up, give us a call when she does," but I was not sanguine.  My theory was that she had slipped out (if a 16 pound cat can be said to slip) while he was putting the smaller traveling cage out on the back porch, so I looked around outside for a bit.  His house is surrounded by trees and deep undergrowth,though.  There was not much hope of finding her, if she was outside and didn't want to be found.

J was also distraught:  she saw it as a sign that his memory had deteriorated more than they'd thought, and that he could no longer take care of other creatures, and maybe not even himself.  However, the next morning he called and reported that she was sitting on his lap and purring.  She'd somehow made it into the shut back bedroom (which I had searched).  I'm still mystified:  yes cats are good at hiding, but she's HUGE, and there was very little space for her to hide in.

Anyway, happy ending, except for the name.  I have continued to call her Maggie, and J and H have followed suit. The next night at dinner P was pushing Beatrice (pronounced in the Italian way...Bee ah TREE chay), and trying to convince A that, as she passed his house, the cat was in the window saying, "I'm Beatrice, Meow!!!"

A paid no attention but they did have a long discussion about Dante.

This morning EB and I exchanged cat stories, and she has agreed to go with E and me to a local shelter to pick out an elderly friendly cat that will be happy staying indoors.  The other stipulation: if the cat does not bond with her, I will be taking it with me.  That will cramp my proposed vagabond lifestyle, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.  E needs a cat.

And so do I.