Cat Musings - The Story of Fynn - Part III

It is impossible for a lover of cats to banish these alert, gentle, and discriminating friends, who give us just enough of their regard and complaisance to make us hunger for more.

~ Agnes Repplier

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“…there is something else about him. Something that took some time to understand. Something that makes me sad…It is something that is likely the reason he was abandoned and left to die.”

Part III - Forever Home

I can’t explain why it’s been so difficult for me to start this chapter of Fynn’s story. He is by far the most unique cat I’ve ever owned. For a good while as he was gaining weight, I wasn’t completely sure exactly what kind of cat he was. I’ve described some of his markings as unmistakably Siamese, others as Bengal, but it wasn’t until I sat down to do a little research that I struck upon the explanation that turned out to be the one. He is a Seal Lynx Point Snow Bengal.

His eyes were the key. They are the most beautiful crystal blue you will ever gaze into, and gaze you will. Yesterday afternoon the sun was streaming into the alcove of my front door and I caught him sitting on his haunches on the doormat staring out at the sunny sidewalk and me as I stepped out of my garage to go back into my house. The sunshine on his face made his pupils narrow to tiny black slits, barely visible in the sparkling blue of his eyes. I halted in my steps just to stare back at him in awe of the striking color. His eyes were wide and round and looked as though someone had dipped their fingers in liquid crystals and sprinkled them into the spheres. I stood and admired them for several seconds before I finally opened the door to go in.

His coat is another giveaway to his breed. It’s short and thick and oh, so soft, like a mink. The color ranges from dark stripes on his head, legs, and tail to creamy white on his belly, to swirls of caramel and brown spots on the creamy white and light brown fur on his body. His fur is glossy and smooth, and in the light, the tips of each strand sparkle like diamonds. It’s no wonder people find Bengals to be such captivatingly beautiful creatures.

Some who may not be cat lovers may wonder how one acclimates a new cat to a stable and happy clowder like mine. Very, very carefully, that’s how. In most cases, I would dare say it’s a slow process that takes patience, but in Fynn’s case, it didn’t take very long – only a few weeks, and mainly because I wanted the abscess on his neck to heal as much as possible before introducing him to the others. He had other plans, however, and was understandably curious and noticeably impatient about meeting his feline compatriots.

I started him out in one of my spare bedrooms with his own litter box, water fountain, and food bowl. Shandy contributed the soft pad he had slept on at her house so he would have something familiar from the previous weeks of recuperation. She also provided his antibiotic ointment and food supplements prescribed by the vet as well as thorough instructions for me to be able to continue his care. It must have been difficult for her to say goodbye to the unique animal she had rescued, but I know she felt assured that he was in the right place. Still very weak and underweight, he slept most of the time but never seemed afraid or confused. It was as if this was all part of some adventure that started in a horrific way but kept getting better and better.

Something that I enjoy about welcoming a new pet into my home is coming up with a name of my own. I have always been quite particular about choosing the right one, and I try to choose one that fits not only the animal’s unique physical traits, but also his personality. With Smitty’s crystal blue eyes and unusual creamy color, traits that I found to be exotic, I went on line and looked up “exotic male cat names.” One of the first that caught my eye was D’Artagnan, the French Musketeer who kept many of Louis XIV’s secrets. But it was a little too exotic. I didn’t want people to secretly roll their eyes when they heard it. I needed something a little simpler, sleeker, and lighthearted because those words described what I had observed of his personality. As always, I enlisted the input of my sons. Keifer liked D’Artagnon but hated the way it was spelled, so I gave them a list that included Luca, Marco, Idris, Adlai, Fuji, and Dante. Keifer pointed out the appropriateness of Dante because Smitty had definitely been through hell. I can’t recall now how I settled on “Fynn,” short for Fynnegan, but I decided to make it more unique by spelling it with a “y,” realizing that it might still elicit eye-rolls, but I didn’t care. To me, it fit.

I spent as much time in the spare room with Fynn as I could, stroking his head and scratching under his chin, being careful not to irritate the healing wound on the right side. As his neck healed, however, it itched, so I would run a fingertip back and forth over it very lightly as he stretched his head forward and closed his eyes in obvious bliss. He purred, but not often, and the sound of it was very subdued, more like heavy breathing. His meow, on the other hand, could indeed wake the dead. If it weren’t for the fact that he responds quite readily to my voice, I would wonder if he were deaf, his voice is so loud. They say many cats meow at a sound frequency similar to that of a crying baby, and they use it to manipulate their owners. Cats have apparently learned that humans don’t seem to have the capacity to understand the “language” they use with each other, which primarily consists of scents, physical contact, visual cues, and body language, so they adapted by vocalizing with their humans.

I live in a townhouse between two neighbors with whom I share party walls that quite effectively insulate against noise, at least, most of the time. One of my neighbors who lives in Louisiana part of the time likes to play music fairly loud and sometimes enjoys what sounds like Zydeco that rattles the pictures on my living room wall. The other neighbors have a sweet little girl whose cry I heard maybe a handful of times ever so faintly when she was a baby a few years ago. Since adopting Fynn, I have wondered if they have heard his cries and wouldn’t be surprised if they have. Fortunately, he responds quickly to my gentle but firm commands that he “quiet down!” I have wondered if his tendency to be so vocal was one of the reasons he ended up abandoned in the woods. I’m quite certain it saved his life.

It took no time at all for Fynn to become acquainted with Sampson, Andre, Sophie, and Eli. Josephine was a little harder sell. She took an immediate dislike of Fynn, and I can only guess as to why. She’s my last rescue before Fynn, one of only two females in the clowder and much younger than Sophie. Never one to be shy, she made her disdain unmistakable, fully utilizing all of the aforementioned cues to communicate it effectively to Fynn. If he so much as looked in her direction, her body tensed, her pupils dilated, and she arched her back – the universal language that clearly screams, “Stay away, you waif!” He would promptly oblige, pulling his head back, his ears would pivot away as he retreated hastily. But make no mistake, he wasn’t timid or afraid. He was simply respectful of his position as the newcomer, behavior I’d seen in all of my cats at one time or another, mostly in deference to the alpha of the bunch, Sampson.

Fynn and Sampson were about the same size, and I wondered how Fynn’s easy-going nature would fly with Sampson. I dole out the head scratches, strokes, and treats as equally as I can according to each cat’s different needs, but Sampson is an affection hog. As it turns out, the two of them seem to get along quite well, although I have noticed an indistinct difference in Sampson’s behavior. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but he does seem to give way to Fynn at times when their paths cross – or when Fynn manages to hop up on my bed before Sampson does and chooses a spot next to me. With any of the other cats, Sampson wouldn’t have that, and a silent battle fought mostly with weapons of body language would ensue with Sampson always dominating. Not so much with Fynn. The most curious thing is that Fynn will generally leave just enough space closer to my face, allowing Sampson to curl up closest to me. Last night, for instance, when Sampson hopped onto my bed and discovered Fynn contentedly settled next to my waist, he stood for a moment looking down at him, even lowering his head to “sniff-sniff” the interloper’s body. I had the distinct impression he was sizing him up and considering a confrontation, so I patted the spot under my arm and gently coaxed him, “Come up here, Sampson.” After hesitating briefly, he turned this way and that before he curved his slender body into the “V” of my armpit and began to purr as I stroked his soft fur.

Fynn demonstrates some of the same quirky traits of Sampson; his love of water from a faucet, for instance. Sampson runs up the stairs ahead of me anytime he thinks I’m going that way and jumps up on my vanity, places both front paws in the sink, and meows as if to say, “Turn it on, please!” And I generally do. Fynn goes to the bathroom and hops into the tub, staring at the faucet and then turns his gaze towards me, patiently waiting for me to lift the handle just enough for a trickle to flow. It’s common for cats not to drink enough water, and after a major scare with Sampson a few years ago when he had a blockage in his urethra, I have become very accommodating – some might call it “trained” – to encourage them to drink water any way I can.

Often, I stare at Fynn and wonder again how he ended up abandoned and near death in the woods. He’s healthy now and living his best life…the best life I can give him anyway. He is a Bengal, after all, and they are known to be very energetic. The Siamese in him may give him a calmer demeanor, but I don’t want him to get bored, so I will continue to look for ways to stimulate him as well as all of my cats.

But there is something else about him. Something that took some time to understand. Something that makes me sad, and when I feel that way, I remind myself of the positives: how his life expectancy is the same as any other normal cat, and that he doesn’t seem bothered by the limitations he has, and how goofy and happy he seems to be. It is something that is likely the reason he was abandoned and left to die, although that realization brings up even more troubling questions for me. No, I haven’t had him diagnosed by a veterinarian, but I’m certain my suspicions are correct. Shandy saw the signs but couldn’t know at the time that they weren’t a result of the malnutrition and infections he suffered when she found him. Now that he’s a healthy weight and the infections are gone, the signs cannot be ignored.

He has Cerebellar Hypoplasia or “CH” for short. It’s a congenital condition, meaning he was born with it. Also known as “wobbly cat syndrome,” it is the result of an underdeveloped cerebellum, which is the part of the brain responsible for balance and coordination. Cats with CH have mild to profound motor coordination issues. If you google it, you’ll see videos of cats that appear to be drunk, their rear ends swaying and their limbs flailing. In severe cases, they can’t walk normally at all, and the only way they can survive is with a great deal of help from human beings. As one might guess, it’s a controversial condition because many would argue that it’s inhumane to force an animal to live that way. Others argue that the cats feel no pain as a result of the disorder, so they should be allowed to live. The condition doesn’t worsen, but it doesn’t get better either. But cats that have it are just as playful and affectionate as any other cat.

I have to admit the videos of cats with severe CH are hard to watch, so I can understand why some would say that severely impaired cats should be humanely euthanized, especially when one considers the overpopulation of unwanted and feral animals. In some cases, that is probably the best option. But it’s a personal decision for a pet owner. If they can provide the care and support that such an animal requires, why shouldn’t they be able to provide it?

Fortunately, Fynn’s case is very mild. From the beginning, I noticed that he appeared to walk funny, placing his front paws very deliberately with every step. And he never really ran. He would trot very fast, and it was a comical thing to see, his ears turned backwards like radar dishes tuned to the sounds of another cat or me pursuing, as his long slender legs trot-trot-trotted as fast as they could take him, which was surprisingly fast, by the way. Then one day when I was sitting in the small recliner in the living room watching the cats play, he sat on his haunches in front of me and I saw his head moving back and forth ever so slightly, the way someone with Parkinson’s would do. Not from side to side, but rather short tremors.

“Fynn,” I said, getting his attention so I could see the tremors more clearly. He turned his head to look at me, and it moved in rapid, barely visible quavers. It happened again on at least two other occasions. But it wasn’t just the tremors or his distinctive gait. With the exception of the cats in the videos, he was the clumsiest feline I had ever seen, and I have to admit it was funny to watch him try to chase and pounce on a toy. Rearing up on his hind legs, it was like his head and front end were just too heavy for him, and he would begin to sway as gravity pulled him downward towards the toy. Once his front paws hit the carpet, he had little control of his hind quarters, and he had to work extra hard to keep from toppling over. After a few jumps and awkward landings, he would tip over on his side with the toy between his front paws, content with his catch and seemingly oblivious to his handicap.

He is undeterred in other ways as well. I have a treat ball that I can fill with cat treats. As the cats roll it around on the floor with their noses or their paws, treats drop out of holes in the ball. All of the cats except Andre like the treats, but only Sophie and Fynn will spend any significant amount of time dislodging the tasty tidbits, and Fynn outdoes Sophie every time. He pushes that ball all over the house until no more treats remain.

His condition is the reason he chooses the faucet in the tub and not the sink. He never jumps on anything higher than my bed. Most of the time, he uses the carpet-covered stairs that I bought for Sophie because of her age and arthritic joints. I’m happy the stairs make the effort easier for both of them.

What Fynn lacks in coordination he more than makes up for in personality and affection. He’s the happiest cat I have ever known, and it’s quite a compliment the way he follows me around, wanting to be close to me. I think I understand now why he shrinks from under my hand when I try to pet him when he’s standing up. I think it’s because he instinctively knows it’s a struggle to keep his balance. When I’m sitting at my makeup table, I’ll extend my arm downward, and he'll stroll back and forth, rubbing against my arm as I hold it steady. When he's ready for more attention than that, he plops down on his side. He rubs his head against the rug and lazily flicks his tail as signs that he wants you to scratch his head, stroke his back, and rub the toe beans on his hind feet. He likes it so much that he immediately spreads his toes apart so you can rub in between the soft pads.

Something else I find quirky and endearing is his fondness for my garden gloves. Made of leather, the fingers are stained brown from digging weeds out of the dirt. When I leave them lying somewhere, he flops down, sometimes cradling one between his paws, holding it to his nose so he can inhale the earthy smells. And he’ll hold it there for several minutes, sometimes staring off into space; other times drifting off to sleep. It’s like those gloves are a deeper connection to nature for him, the same way that digging in the dirt, weeding, pruning and planting provide a special connection to nature for me.

Innocence…curiosity…intelligence…trust…mischief. These are what I see when Fynn gazes at me with his sparkling blue eyes. This beautiful creature that was tossed away like garbage has brought such a wonderful mix of energy and personality to my diverse clowder. Rescued from an act of cruel humans by caring ones, he will never again experience the callous side of human nature. He will be safe from dhe dangers of traffic, wild animals, and harsh weather. He will never go hungry, and he will never again be abandoned or lost. He will know only gentleness, kindness, and love, for he has found his forever home with me.