Cat Musings — Cat Clowder

I am always a little hesitant to tell people about my cats. There is an undeniable stigma associated with owning cats (emphasis on the plural), especially if you are a woman.

A lot has happened since my last post about the ginger stray that has visited my patio since late October. Before I share this update on this latest feline encounter, I have to be honest. I am always a little hesitant to tell people about my cats. There is an undeniable stigma associated with owning cats (emphasis on the plural), especially if you are a woman. I learned recently that my veterinarian, Dr. Jim Whiteside, shares his home with seven cats and one dog. That knowledge bolstered my confidence and my resolve. Just own it, Kelly, I told myself. It is what it is, and it is nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, there are so many truly worthy benefits to rescuing cats and even more to loving the enigmatic creatures.

When John and I were first getting acquainted, we talked about the traits of “dog people” compared to “cat people.” Quite a bit has been written about the subject, interestingly enough, and I have my own perspectives on it that don’t amount to a hill of beans. Something I do feel strongly about is the difference in the natures of dogs and cats.

To me, dogs have a divine nature. They are capable of unconditional love, and stories of their loyalty and devotion can truly be inspiring. A dog can be abused and neglected and yet still gently lick the hand of its abuser. They exist to please and to serve, and dog people reciprocate by showering their adoring pets with affection and love, treating them as extensions of their families. The loss of such a beloved companion can create a depth of sorrow that cannot be denied or minimized.

The nature of cats, on the other hand, is more akin to humankind. In other words, to me, their behavior is far more characteristic of human beings. Admittedly, that includes some flawed behaviors. Like us, they tend to be self-serving creatures. They have selective hearing. Some would say they are inherently lazy, another trait we humans sometimes share. They do spend an average of 12 to 16 hours a day sleeping, something they are expert at.

Another relevant consideration is that cats haven’t been domesticated nearly as long as dogs have. One interesting article I read suggests that cats have been our companions for only 9,000 years as compared to 30,000 for dogs. (1) That can account for a lot of difference, I would imagine.

The trait that makes dogs so special is actually the one that I find mildly unappealing. Their adoration for their masters often seems ingratiating and even manipulative. I realize this makes it sound as though I think their motives are questionable, and that would not be a very divine behavior. In contrast, if there’s one word I could use to describe a prominent trait of cats, it would be “sincere.” I admire their independent spirits and no-nonsense attitudes. There is nothing pretentious about them, and you always know where you stand with them. They can be aloof and indifferent, or they can clearly show they prefer your company to being alone. Many people have the impression that they aren’t very affectionate, but any cat person can tell you there is nothing further from the truth. They are all unique, however, with some capable of more than others, and some even have special gifts that certainly could be considered divine in nature. I’ll explain how one of mine fits that bill a little later, but for now, I will tell you about my clowder of cats and the ginger stray.

Growing up, it was mostly dogs, but cats have always held a special place in my heart. I admire their independent spirits and no-nonsense attitudes. There is nothing pretentious about them. I appreciate sincerity, and cats possess it in spades. Every single one is unique in some way.

Andre is by far the biggest cat I have ever seen in person weighing in at 20 pounds, and he is beautiful — solid white with amber eyes and a face that has the classic earmarks of his distant relative, the lion. Family and friends “ooh” and “ahh” over him because he is so regal. He’s also quite possibly my most peculiar cat because he behaves in an almost autistic way. Pet him, if you’d like, but don’t use two hands or he’ll turn away as though the stimulation is more than he can bear.

Although Andre is not my oldest — he’s third in line at around 7 — he is like a grumpy old man who barely tolerates my younger generation represented by my first true feral rescue, Eli, who is 4 years old now. For inexplicable reasons, Eli is in awe of Andre, frequently rubbing and head-butting him in attempts to show how much he worships him, but Andre will have none of that nonsense and will hiss in disapproval. The specter of Andre hissing is truly sinister. Eli withdraws sheepishly but is ultimately undaunted by the brush-offs. Gotta give him kudos for his chutzpah because otherwise, the “fraidy-cat,” as John calls him, is most often seen, if you see him at all, scurrying away in a flash, his belly low to the ground, to find a place to hide.

I think he was probably around 4 months old when he first showed up on my narrow front walkway. He was scrawny with an odd bulge on his underbelly. I was able to coax him to come to the food bowl while I was present, but he wouldn't come more than a few feet away from me and always where he could turn and bolt in an instant if he felt threatened, which was pretty much all the time. I borrowed a live trap from my veterinarian and managed to catch him one night and take him to the vet the next day. Turns out the bulge was an umbilical hernia, fairly common in kittens and easily repaired. After he was tested for FIV and FeLV and found negative, he underwent surgery to be neutered and to repair the hernia. Always up for a challenge, especially where animals are concerned, I took on the task of domesticating him. Would have been much simpler if he were younger and I were retired, but I was hopeful.

Family and friends rarely see the aloof little creature except in a blur as he dashes from the room to hide, but I consider his domestication to be a success. He is touchable only by me, and that is one of the greatest expressions of trust and acceptance that one can experience. To have a virtually wild animal overcome the instinct of fear and flight to allow a creature that provokes terror in him to scratch his head and stroke his slender body is the ultimate tribute of trust, and I never take it for granted that he willingly offers it. He will likely never be an affectionate lap cat, but he has a certain innocence and sweet disposition that I find undeniably worthy of love.

The most compelling aspect of his personality by far is the conflict that rages within him between his wild side and the domesticated part. Sometimes I can’t help but feel sorry for him and wonder if I did the right thing. When doubts creep in, I consider that he will likely never suffer from serious disease. He will never be hit by a car, killed by another animal, or know cruelty at the hands of an uncaring human, and he will never go hungry. All of these things make his rescue and domestication more than worthwhile.

My oldest rescue is a long-haired female named Sophie who is at least 13 years old. She belonged to a young woman who worked at Walmart several years ago who gave her up when she decided to move to California. I had seen the handwritten note on the bulletin board at work asking for someone to adopt her; otherwise, she would be taken to the shelter. I waited until the last minute to call the associate and ask about her cat. No one had expressed an interest in her, so I went to see her. She had what seemed like a very sweet disposition and a beautiful Maine Coon-type coat, although I don’t believe that is her breed because she’s not big enough. That is how she came to be the only female of my cat clan, at least until now. Surrounded by males, she is a bit of a diva, readily showing her displeasure with Samson's and Andre's displays of bravado. She loves nothing more than to curl up next to you so you can stroke her while she purrs. If you stop, she gently reaches out with her paw to touch your arm repeatedly, which can actually be quite annoying. She is also very vocal, responding to her name and to conversation with a scratchy “mmrrr-owww.”

As a geriatric feline, I am learning to deal with some of the health issues that are common to older cats, like arthritic joints and litter box issues. It is part of the package of pet ownership, and I take it very seriously. As we find remedies and her mood and behavior become more kitten-like, I know she feels better, and that makes me happy too.

That brings us to Samson, my miniature black panther and unopposed leader of my clowder. He is also my favorite. He is about 9 years old, solid black with not a speck of white fur anywhere on his body, and he has bright green eyes. He is not a big cat, probably less than half the size of Andre, but he has the biggest personality. He is my only cat that will walk on a leash, and he will go to the coat rack where it hangs by the door, lift his front paws up on the wooden stand with his nose pointing to the leash when he wants to go out, much like a dog would do. He is most content to be curled up on a chair cushion next to me when I’m writing or stretched out on his side on my chest on the recliner where he can tilt his head up to gaze at me in adoration while he purrs. That’s the best word to describe how he behaves towards me: he adores me. He is the most affectionate of all my cats, giving as much as he receives. He has a special sense about him too, and I saw it revealed in an incredible way during the last few weeks of my husband’s life when Samson would not leave his side. Roy wasn’t particularly fond of cats, or of Samson in particular – he called him “the neediest cat I’ve ever seen” – but in those final days when Roy was bedridden, Samson would squeeze himself under the edge of the covers and onto the bed next to Roy, and there he would stay for hours at a time, emerging only to eat and do his business. I can’t say for sure, but I think it was his way of offering Roy some measure of comfort.

I have floated a theory about animals on occasion among some of my close friends who are less likely to scoff, at least not openly. Not all, but definitely some animals, I believe, are angels that dwell among us. I don’t know a great deal about angels except that they are created beings and I believe they can take on different forms. Why not that of an animal? We have all read stories of dogs and cats doing incredible feats that save the lives of their families, like alerting them to a house fire or chasing off an attacking animal. Those who love animals know what companionship they can offer to ease loneliness. All I know is that Samson possesses some special gifts, and I hope he lives a long, long time.

The most recent new member to join the clowder is the little ginger stray, tiger-striped or orange tabby kitten. At least, I assume she was a stray. Like Andre, I suspect she had some limited exposure to human beings because she has acclimated quickly, especially compared to Eli. The introduction wasn’t without incident, however.

When she first appeared at my patio, she was pretty little, and I assumed, was around 8-10 weeks old. That was around the last week or so of October. She was very skittish and would dash away and disappear around my air conditioner any time I would approach the door. Still, I could tell she was hungry, and she was also intrigued by my cats that would sit by the glass doors with their noses practically touching the glass, as curious about her as she was about them. Samson would sometimes jump up against the glass and startle her. She would draw back suddenly but seem to translate his aggressiveness as play and go right back for more. I wasn’t so sure he was playing, at first. Although he is not my biggest or oldest cat, he is definitely the alpha male of my bunch, and everyone respects that.

Over the months when she came to my patio, I would coax her to come to the door where I would extend my arm through a narrow opening and offer her treats from my hand. She was very skittish and hesitant to take them, but eventually she overcame her fears and ate from my hand. First hurdle crossed.

Playful and bright-eyed, I was impressed with her from the start. Her paws were dainty, and I knew she would be a small cat when she was full grown. She was feisty and would lie down on the cold cement and roll around, but she was quick to jump up and dash away if I stood up or made any other movement, sudden or not.

By Christmas, she visited regularly twice a day, at 6 a.m. when I fed mine their canned food and again around 5:00 in the afternoon when I replenished their kibble, and I would spend some time playing with her at my patio door. I still have no idea where she spent the hours of the day, most likely sleeping. I wasn’t even sure that she didn’t belong to someone in the neighborhood, but if she did, I don’t think they paid much attention to her or she wouldn’t have been so eager to visit me.

At some point I called my veterinarian’s office to speak with the Patient Care Coordinator, Kathy, who had been a great source of information and help to me with Eli. She listened to my description of the little orange tabby and suggested that I continue what I was doing until after the new year, then call them to arrange to have her spayed before she was likely to be old enough to get pregnant, something I definitely wanted to avoid.

The next hurdle . . . how to get her into a carrier. She was allowing me to pet her, and she had grown more and more curious about the house and the other cats. It was only a matter of time before I coaxed her inside the doorway, but I needed to figure out how to get her into a carrier. Food was the key, and she loved the treats, so one evening when I thought the time was right, I placed some treats at the back of a small carrier that I own and positioned the opening just a few inches inside the patio door. I opened the door just wide enough to allow her to enter and swung the metal grid of the door so that it blocked her from scooting around the carrier. With me on the other side, she had nowhere to go except into the carrier for the treats.

It worked like a charm. I quickly swung the door of the carrier closed behind her, trapping her inside.

Now what?

I couldn’t keep her inside the carrier overnight. I would have to find a way to hold her until I could get her to the vet, and that might take a couple of days. The kennel would have to do.

I had purchased a kennel for a large dog a few years before and used it to acclimate Eli to the house and the other cats. It was large enough to accommodate a small litterbox and even a cat bed, although in the kitten’s agitated state, I doubted she would appreciate that amenity. At this point, all she wanted was her freedom.

Transferring her from the carrier to the kennel in my garage wasn’t foolproof either, but I managed to get her inside the kennel without escaping. I wouldn’t be so lucky when it was time to take her to the vet.

Fortunately, my veterinarian made time to examine her, test her, and perform the spay surgery the next morning. When it was time to get her back into the carrier for the trip to the vet, I contemplated my strategy and thought that if I were careful, she would once again see there was nowhere to go except into the opening. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way.

I should have worn my thick gardening gloves. Before I opened the kennel door, I stood and looked carefully around my garage at all the possible places for the kitten to go, if she managed to get away from me. I have a built-in workbench with shelves in my garage that would be problematic if she managed to climb behind some of the boxes I had stored there. The PVC pipe shelving along the walls were too narrow and didn’t offer her coverage, so I thought it unlikely she would make a dash for those. As I kneeled down with the carrier to slowly open the kennel door and insert the open end of the carrier into it, she was sitting in a tight ball in the back corner of the kennel, obviously terrified. What happened next happened so quickly, I can’t really even tell you the sequence, but when she moved towards the carrier opening, she tried to squeeze through the narrow opening between the top of the carrier and the kennel door, and when she did, I grabbed her in an attempt to keep her from escaping. When I did so, she did what any frightened, semi-wild animal would do. She bit me.

At that moment, I didn’t have time to think about it because now she was loose in my garage and desperate as ever to find an escape route. She dashed to the PVC shelving on the east side of my garage, bounded up the edge of it and onto the garage door, where she immediately realized she had no traction. She jumped down and ran in a flash to the workbench and wedged herself into the narrow space between the top of a cabinet on the right-hand side and the bottom of the wide shelf that provides storage above the workbench area at the front end of my garage. I hadn’t noticed it in my earlier assessment. Her eyes were wide with fear as I caught my breath and surveyed my options for capturing her. I would have to scruff her, something I hate doing but that effectively immobilizes a cat. And this time, I would wear gloves.

While she crouched in the narrow opening, I quickly assessed the bite to my right hand. There were two puncture wounds, one on the palm-side at the base of my thumb and a corresponding one on the knuckle of my thumb, no doubt from her canine fang. Both oozed blood but didn’t appear to be serious.

Disclaimer: There is no such thing as a non-serious cat bite.

Cautiously I approached the corner of the workbench where she crouched and quickly determined that there was indeed enough room for my hand to slip between her neck and the shelf above her. With my gloved hand, I slowly reached for her, and to my surprise, she didn’t move. I scruffed her as gently but firmly as I could and pulled her unceremoniously from the top of the cabinet. Her little body curled limply under her as she hung suspended, the way she had once done as a tiny kitten in the mouth of her mother. Slowly I lowered her into the open end of the carrier, and once she was completely inside, I let go and quickly withdraw my hand, slamming the door closed and trapping her once again.

Before leaving for the vet, I examined and cleaned the punctures to my hand the best I could, but I wasn’t concerned. She didn’t make a sound on the 20-minute drive to the vet where I delivered her without further incident.

Later that afternoon, Dr. Whiteside called with a progress report. She had come through the surgery just fine.

“Obviously, her test results were negative. I was actually surprised she wasn’t already pregnant,” he reported, “because she is at least six months old. Her teeth are pristine, and apparently she’s been eating good.”

I was surprised by this because she was such a small cat but just as relieved to learn she had not been pregnant.

“She is vaccinated and can go home later this afternoon. Do you want me to notch her ear?” This is something that veterinarians do to strays, feral or domesticated, so that people know they have been sterilized. “Will she be an outdoor cat?” he asked.

“No, she won’t, so no need to notch her ear,” I told him. “I’m planning to keep her.”

There. I said it out loud. The proclamation was made. The destiny of another former stray had been forever altered.

Her name is Josephine, “Josey” for short, and she is a little spitfire. It has been a short three weeks since she was neutered, and already, she has been accepted into the clowder. From the get-go, she approached the other cats cautiously, and if she were met with hisses or the slightest sign of aggression, she would halt where she was and assume a non-combative posture, but she wouldn’t retreat and run. If she had, Samson and Andre, and probably Eli as well, would have surely pursued and attacked her. She held her ground, and they have chosen to be tolerant.

With me, she is as affectionate as Samson, climbing into my lap within days of her trip to the vet and curling up while her internal engine purred loudly. She gazes at me intently when I talk to her, her eyes flicking away and then back to me as though she is trying to figure out exactly what kind of creature I am and the meaning behind the sounds I make. The only indication of her feral side is the way she quickly dashes away to hide when there is any movement around her, sudden or otherwise, just as Eli does. I am hoping she will eventually grow accustomed to me, Keifer, and John and realize there is no reason for alarm, and I think it’s likely she will.

As for my injury, within days the smaller puncture on my palm was disappearing, but the wound on my knuckle had turned a deep red and was swollen and painful. Just over a week after the bite, John drove me to the urgent care clinic where I received a tetanus shot and a 10-day round of antibiotics. I soaked my hand in hot water with Epsom salt a couple of times a day over a period of three or four days until the swelling subsided and the deep crimson turned a lighter shade, and I knew I was well on my way to healing.

One thing is certain: I am at my limit. Two years ago, I had five cats. Josey took Patches' spot. Technically, Patches was Kohlson’s cat, as he had asked permission to adopt him as a kitten from a friend’s family some 18 years before when we lived in Arkansas and Kohlson was in grade school. He was an outdoor cat for much of his life until he became blind and deaf. In October of 2019, he suffered what the doctor thought was likely a stroke, and I knew it was time to say goodbye.

If I could, I would have a sanctuary, and I would take in all the unwanted, abused, and neglected cats and kittens that came my way. For now, I am content to have the companionship of these five unique and mysterious creatures who found their way to me and share my home. They make me happy, and that is what matters most of all.

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References:

1. NextGen Dog, Dogs vs Cats: Analysis of Cat Genome and Domestication, https://nextgendog.com/dogs-vs-cats-analysis-of-cat-genome-and-domestication/#:~:text=Cats%20have%20a%20relatively%20recent%20history%20of%20domestication,some%20even%20still%20breed%20with%20their%20wild%20relatives.