Life in Cowtown

I thought I’d throw out a quick update on the orange kitty we rescued last winter. Last we spoke, he was busily settling into the house, and being a lover not a fighter he was mainly placating all the house cats that didn’t reciprocate his ever loving attentions.  He is the cuddliest cat by nature, and he is now allowing me to pet him, as long as he doesn’t see my hand approach him directly.  He also hisses at the front door if it’s open, and runs away to hide probably hoping that he never has anything to do with the great outdoors ever again.

With Alfie, he ended up making peace and now they are happy to run away from scary noises together.

With Tweak, he has a mutual pact of non-aggression. He tries to be all loving, but she looks at him sideways and walks away.

But it was my big white deaf boy that was the main object of his affections.  He LOVES the big white furball, and follows him around the house worshipfully. And despite the fact that they’re both male, he tries to get frisky with him. And he tries to hold him down and clean him, and groom him, and cuddle up next to him. It’s hilarious and entertaining by turns.  And now I have a big gay orange cat, and poor confused Cheney who has no idea what he’s done to deserve this.

PS – He also has a supremely useful trait. When Cheney locks himself in the bathroom to have a yell (see story), Pumpkin runs to the rescue. Upon hearing his plaintive cries, he headbutts the door and lets Cheney out. It’s very sweet to watch, and incredibly helpful as well.

“I’m gonna hug him, and squeeze him, and call him George…”

This winter we rescued and inherited a feral kitty, with the help of a local rescue group that has a Trap-Neuter-Release program. They trapped, neutered and were about to release, as he was deemed to be too feral and hostile to be sheltered. This may sound cruel, but it’s not. Many feral cats do not take well to shelter life, take forever to socialize, and are difficult to adopt out, making their stay at shelters much longer than most, and stressful to boot.  Feral cats outdoors often form colonies, often assisted by volunteer caretakers, that allow them to live out their natural lives without the trauma of forced ‘rehabilitation’. 

However, we were in the thick of a brutally cold winter, and as far as we could tell Kitty had no colony and his life on the streets was no picnic. I don’t know how many times we watched him limp to the front door into his heated box suspending his injured or frostbitten paw, or show up with an eye swollen with a gash, or watch him try to gulp down food before it froze. (In the end we worked out a system where he’d get his meals in small chunks).  He was cautious, colorful and notoriously hard to trap. Until we did, and took his terrified self over to the vet.

Upon hearing he’d be back on the streets, we promptly asked that he be returned to us, and set him up in the guest room in our basement. For about three days we didn’t see hair nor hide of him. He stuffed himself flat under the pillow on the bed, and you’d never ever know there was a cat there.  Eventually he emerged and stayed on the windowsill of the room, hissing furiously when we brought him food and water.  But we had an unusually busy winter – father was rescued out of Libya, brother had an unfortunate appendectomy, grandmother passed away, exams had to be written, new jobs found, etc. etc. and we didn’t have a lot of energy to dedicate to Kitty.

So we pretty much left him to his own devices. After about a month or so in isolation in the room, I began leaving his door open for a few minutes each night so our curious and hostile resident cats could meet him.  Our ‘special’ champion and patron saint of weirdoes was the friendliest, his sister cautious from a distance, and Alfie surprised us all by hating him on sight. The reason I was surprised is because she too is a feral, one that took a couple of years to get socialized, and I thought she’d have some sympathy and understanding for his plight.  Evidently she did not, and took to chasing him back to his room if he ever ventured a paw outside it.

Eventually the door was left open longer and longer, Pumpkin went exploring further and further, and finally he wormed his way into the household with virtually no help from us. His early explorations were fraught with peril – he’d slink out one paw at a time, ears flattened, ready to bolt back to his room at the first sign of trouble, squealing with fear and often being chased back by Alfie, who’d whistle like an angry teakettle. But Pumpkin was nothing if not persistent, and Alfie must have gotten tired of playing ‘vigilant guardian’, because now he prowls the house freely, often naps on furniture, eats pretty close to everyone, and lets us walk within two feet of him provided we are not looking at him.

This picture was taken last week, when for the first time he walked into our bedroom while I was reading in bed, and plopped down for a spell.  I betcha it won’t be long until we’re kicking him off the bed at bedtime. And that’s my story of how we pretty much ignored all socialization advice and let the cats do their own thing. And how I’m becoming a crazy cat lady one rescue at a time.

P.S. As to why we called him Pumpkin – once upon a time this winter, we were leaving our house and got onto a busy highway which is two blocks away. We live right on the edge of town, and this highway while close to our house, is still pretty rural looking. As soon as we turned the corner, we saw a curl of orange on the side of the ditch and immediately assumed the worst – that Kitty had met a car. This is not improbable, as I’ve seen him almost get smoked by buses and cars more than once while navigating the icy neighborhood streets.  We circled back for a closer look, but the curled shape looked too familiar against the white snow. We practically had to get out of the car to see it for what it was – a rotting, squished pumpkin.

All pets have personalities that are as unique as that of their owners. In our case, the male cats’ personality can be best described as ’asshole’.  He is stubborn, obnoxious, needy, ungraceful and stomps around the house wreaking havoc and catastrophe.  He’s lucky he’s really really cute when he sleeps, otherwise he’d be throttled.

His quirks are legion, from locking himself in the bathroom then screaming his indignation on top of his lungs, to choking himself on the rim of a garbage can, to the most annoying of all – the nocturnal burst of energy.  Every night between three and five AM he stomps into our bedroom and proceeds to ensure SOMEBODY wakes up and pays attention to him. 

Like Simon’s Cat, he begins with a few plaintive meows. Since we ignore those like the champion sleepers we are, he escalates to jumping on the bedside table, knocking off the stray books, hair ties, water glass with his crash landing, and mournfully meows some more.  He is deaf, and cannot modulate his voice, so his meows generally have the same tonality as a cow. 

If by then someone hasn’t woken up to a) kick him out and shut the door b) lock him up in the bathroom c) attempt catricide, he escalates by doing something incredibly obnoxious, like finding a plastic bag to rummage through, or his new favorite game of launching himself into our wooden blinds, headfirst, to great rattling.

We have kind of tried everything over the years – a visit to the vet ruled out medical problems,  water spray is just a fun game, locking him up pre-emptively ensures he yells himself hoarse all night. Keeping the bedroom door locked gets us a serenade under the door, as well as indignant scratching of the two girl cats, who see no reason to be punished for his behavior.  We generally resort to blearily waking up, tossing his furiously snorting butt out, and going back to bed with the precision of a racing pit crew member.

Lately James has been working a lot less due to a back injury. Since he is nocturnal at heart, like me, his schedule quickly shifts to staying up quite late, and sleeping in.  This means I get a hope of uninterrupted slumber, since him staying up means that *I* get my beauty rest. 

However he does it, is fair game – food, toys, whatever it takes. Despite his best efforts, Cheney often wakes me up still by hollering in his nasal whine on top of his lungs.  The other night was no different - cat yelled, I blearily stomped him into the bathroom and locked the door.