In the Beginning: Cammie

Cammie came to me in June, 2013, from an unpleasant situation. We were told by a woman that a cat was being physically abused by a boy in a household. She had the father of the family agree to her taking the cat for safekeeping, but she could not keep her. The PAW Society was contacted and, because it was an emergency situation, and no other spot was available, the cat, now named Cammie, came to live with me.

Cammie was distrustful. She hissed and growled when I ventured into the room into which she was placed. Two people were required to take her to a veterinary examination; we dropped a blanket over her and stuffed her into the carrier that way. She was kept in a room in my house until she grew accustomed to her new environment. Eventually, she met the other cats. She did not like them. She still doesn’t.

The newcomer seemed to be somewhat fascinated with Tungsten, though. Cammie followed the orange one about, much to the latter’s consternation. The two girls may have become friends, if given time. A decade or two.

Gradually, Cammie began to trust me. I well remember hearing her purr for the first time, while she condescended to let me pet her. Then, she jumped up onto my lap. There are few things to compare with the first time you realise that an animal may actually think you aren’t the worst thing in the world. We still had far to go; as Churchill said after the Battle of El Alamein, “It is not the end; it is not even the beginning of the end. But it may be, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”

The princess received a shock in May, 2014. She was adopted. I was ambivalent about it. I was glad that she was going to a home, but worried that she would not be treated as she needed to be. All cats require time to adjust; some require more than others. Cammie required the most of all. There was something about the adopter (who, for convenience, I will call X) that made me uneasy; maybe it was how she didn’t seem listen when I explained what Cammie was like. She may have wanted Cammie just because she was Siamese. But this was my foster-cat’s chance, and I realised that she likely would not be given many.

Off Cammie went to Regina. My unease increased over the next few weeks. I write the monthly newsletter for the PAW Society, and it always includes a story about each adoption as they occur. This entails an interview with the human involved. I had a very difficult time reaching X. When I spoke to her, she described actions that didn’t seem like Cammie’s; they were too friendly, too fast.

One of the PAW Executive Board, B, visits Regina on personal business every couple of months. She had loaned an extra-large carrier to X, for the long journey into Saskatchewan. When next in Regina, she stopped by X’s house to pick it up. No one was home. But X’s son drove up by chance while B was there. B asked how Cammie was. The son was loud and rude in describing how Cammie was mentally defective. B, shocked, asked if he and his mother would like PAW to take Cammie back. The son was glad to give the cat back, and went inside the house to get her. (The ease with which he secured Cammie made me wonder later if he had grabbed the right cat. He had; Cammie’s later behaviour provided a clue to this mystery.)

I received a message from B while watching a movie (Green Fire, starring Stewart Granger). I was on my holidays, I believe. When I read the text message (“I have Cammie”), I did a mental double-take. Wasn’t Cammie adopted? Soon, I was told the story. Again, I was ambivalent; knowing what had happened, of course the princess must come home. But she was not an easy cat, grumpy and contrary. I had visions of forever fearing a slashed throat every time she had to go to the doctor, or simply have her claws cut. But when she arrived back at my house, I was glad she had been rescued, again.

Cammie’s development did not receive the set-back I had dreaded. After a couple of days, she picked up where she had left off. Slowly, we became friends. I adopted her in April, 2015.

Now, in the cosy apartment, she has become an ‘ordinary cat’. I can pick her up. She doesn’t like it, but she lets me. I can cut her claws. One at a time. I can force-feed her. She hates me for it. But every time we have words, she will, a minute later, climb onto my chest and purr, if I give her the opportunity. She has taken to lying on my neck while I am in bed. She purrs and purrs. I breathe cat-hair. Is this an improvement on her criss-crossing my body – again, purring – while I am trying to sleep? But when she walks up to me on the bed and bumps my chin with her head, I will let her do pretty much anything.

She still screams bloody murder at times, just as she did when she first came to live with me. She has never intentionally harmed me. Perhaps she never would have. Perhaps she was always a great load of bluff. Maybe that’s why X’s son was able to seize her so simply in Regina – that and the fact that he probably didn’t care about being gentle. I certainly never intend to provoke Cammie into proving me wrong, but there may be more fear than ferocity in her, still.

It was nearly miraculous how she was rescued a second time. If B hadn’t had to go to Regina, if X’s son hadn’t shown up during the few minutes B was at his house, Cammie would still be there. Well, probably not. She has had terrible episodes of what can only be allergic reactions to food – pretty much everything but what she is eating right now. What would her chances have been suffering such a bout in such a household?

Well, we don’t worry about such things now. I worry about Cammie eating something she shouldn’t; about her getting out through the screen door; about her choking on something; about her developing cancer. You know, the usual things. But the princess is my friend, and we worry about our friends.

In the Beginning: Tucker

Tucker came to live with me under circumstances that were similar to Renn’s. He was adopted when he was a kitten, and had lived with his family for five years. Then, in late 2010, that family had a human baby. This can be unnerving to family pets, but is certainly not a problem if handled in certain ways. Tucker was not handled in certain ways. He started wetting where he shouldn’t and, feeling that they had enough with which to cope, his people evicted him. They returned him to the PAW Society, who of course took the refugee in.

Tucker needed somewhere to go, so he came to stay with me. He was lucky in that my previous foster-cat, Devon, had just been adopted. In fact, Tucker came to the apartment just hours after Devon was taken to his new home. That’s how pressed PAW was – always is – for foster-care. (As a side-note, Devon continues to do very well, eight years later. He is still with his adoptive family. They had two older girlcats at the time, and had to sort out troubles between Devon and them. But everyone got along eventually; a fourth cat was added and, after the two girls died of old age, just weeks apart, a kitten was adopted.)

Tucker was scared in his new environment. He wet outside the litter-box in my apartment, too, but only twice, and in cat-beds. These were disposable, cheap cat-beds, so they were thrown out. After that, he used the litter-box. He didn’t eat, however, and I was shown, for the first time, how to force-feed a cat. Tucker, with his roly-poly sausage shape, looked like a big furry baby, being held and syringe-fed. But he accepted his food, his giant green eyes wide with anxiety. Eventually, he ate on his own and started venturing out of the library, where he was initially sequestered.

Something I noticed about him was that he didn’t seem to know how to play. He was afraid of toys, especially wands and string-toys. When he started gently tapping them (his first interpretation of fighting with them), it was a breakthrough. He hasn’t looked back.

Like Renn, I thought Tucker would have a difficult time adjusting to a new family, if he were adopted by someone else, so I decided to keep the little fellow. Unlike Renn, I suspect Tucker really would have had problems. Renn would have adapted well enough, but Tucker may have had urinary issues, and those, notoriously, lead to many returns in animal-rescue.

Indeed, the roly poly continued to have urinary issues, but they became physical, rather than emotional. He developed blockages. I remember very well seeing him try to use the litter-box. It became so bad that he just lie down in it (I had taken the hood off one to encourage him) and looked up at me, as if asking for help. He went to the animal hospital that day, even though it was a Sunday (my veterinaries will open their office for emergencies). Tucker had his water-pipes unblocked and he came home. They blocked again, so he returned to the hospital. The second obstruction was cleared and returned as a third, even before he left the hospital. So he underwent a perineal urethrostomy. This surgery was a drastic measure, but it was successful, and since then, he has not had a urinary problem.

Being the bottom rung in the hierarchy – Cammie was adopted later but she is not one to settle for last place – Tucker has been sensitive to new cats coming to visit. There have been episodes of fighting between him and others - the roly poly can hold his own in a brawl pretty well – but supervision and sequestration make for a reasonably calm household. Otherwise, Tucker is a timid little tube-cat, and a bit insecure, I think. He will amble over from across the room just to rub up against me. I always pet him when he does that; if he makes an effort to tell me he likes me, I can’t ignore him. He keeps me company during meals (I suspect the draw is the food, and not me, however) and sits with me while I write at the dining table.

Though older than Renn by two years, and not the newest cat here in the cosy apartment, I can’t help but think of Tucker as the baby of the family. That’s what he was eight years ago, and that’s what my roly poly always will be.

In the Beginning: Renn

After Tungsten and Josie, Renn came to live with me. His name was originally spelled with one N, and I am not sure why or from where he acquired the second. He arrived, as so many cats do, as a foster (hence his full name of Renfrew Foster), coming to live with me in May of 2010.

In  August, 2007, he had been rescued as a kitten, along with his four brothers and mother, who was named Alberta Rose by the PAW Society, into whose care they came. The young family had been abandoned in the coulees (the earthen cliffs cut by ravines that line the river here in Lethbridge). At three and a half months old, Ren and his brother Charlie were adopted together, but returned in the spring of 2009. They then went into foster-care together.

Trouble arose when Ren bit his foster-guardian. She explained that she had been trimming Ren’s bum-hair, of which, as a long-haired beast, he has plenty. I came to know that Renn does not like his nether regions attended to, nor does he like his claws cut. I must see to those tasks patiently and sometimes over a few days. My big boy gives a warning groan when his own patience is being tried, and that is a sign to pause, calm him and attempt the chore again later. I doubt that he had developed such a characteristic at that point; on the other hand, his guardian may have trimmed too close for comfort. The result was that Ren was banished to the basement of his foster-home, and PAW was told that another must be found for him. I had fostered three cats by then, and offered to take in Ren.

We were told by the foster-guardians, who retained Charlie, that Ren did not like people and preferred to remain in the basement. I suspect that he did not like the people in the house, who had decided that he was a bad cat, and preferred to remain away from them. In my home, Ren was timid (which he is still, even after he achieved the extra N in his name) but anxious to meet the other cats, and me. He loves people and, while he is initially shy, it does not take him long to test the waters, especially if the newcomers sit still for a few minutes.

His brothers have all been adopted – Mondo, Dusty, Charlie and a fourth, whose name I am sorry to write, I do not know. All share Renn’s big facial features, big size and big hair; colouring differs except for Charlie, pictured below. (Charlie was eventually adopted – into the same home as his brother, Dusty.) I decided to adopt Renn because I thought his timidity would prevent most people from getting to know him well. I don’t now think that was really the case, but he seems comfy enough here, so he may as well stay.

Renn has become the most tolerant of new cats – which isn’t really saying much here – and became good friends with Tungsten, who returned his feelings, after she had established her dominance by striking Renn once on the top of the head so strongly the blow made my teeth rattle.

Healthy and strong, and going on eleven, my big boy seems set fair for a long life, and, paws crossed, he and I will live it together.

In the Beginning: Josie

I would like to thank everyone who sent their best wishes for my journey to Holidayland. Everybody who wants tranquility and peace of mind is welcome in that marvelous country.

As the first blog-action of my holiday, I would like to take up a suggestion made by Patty Andrews, and seconded by Kari, that I describe the history of my cats. I thought I would concentrate principally upon their origins, and how they came to live with me, as their time since has been largely covered by my blog entries. I will start with my oldest cat, Josie, who has been with me longer than any other.

My Chubs, as I call her for what once was an obvious reason, had been rescued as a kitten, in 2004. She had been found by a man in the engine block of his truck, as happens now and then in autumn and winter when cats crave the warmth of a recently run motor. This man could not remove the future Josie from her place of refuge – though I don’t think he could have tried very hard – and actually drove, with her still clinging to the engine, some distance to a shelter of which he knew. Of course Josie was in grave danger the whole time, but she survived.

Josie stayed in foster-care for about four years. She was safe and cared for, but in a very crowded feline environment. I know that she was considered for adoption at least once but would not come out from under a table to meet her prospective adopter. Eventually, though she remained in the same foster-home, her care was transferred to the Lethbridge PAW Society, from which I had adopted my first cat, Tungsten.

After about a year and a half with me, I felt that Tungsten was lonely. Well, she may have been lonely, but it wasn’t for feline company. I didn’t know this and, from among the cats available, chose to meet Josie, with the aim of introducing her to the tiny terror. In a neutral environment, this new cat purred and purred, butted her head against everything and generally made me think she was the most amiable creature since Winnie-the-Pooh. This was, of course, false.

Once she came to live with me – on Christmas Eve, 2008, I believe - the Great White revealed herself to be more reserved. She was friendly and cheerful, but did not demonstrate it nearly as much as she had when we first met, which had probably been due simply to her excitement at being out and about. Tungsten was displeased with the addition to the household, and she and Josie fought. I had no experience with integrating cats, and thought I had made a terrible mistake. But I discovered what many have before and since: cats will very often reach an accommodation with each other. Never pals, the two girls nonetheless achieved a modus vivendi.

Josie was adopted about six months after her probationary period with me, retaining her pre-adoption name. I would have changed it, I suspect, if she had not already become accustomed to me calling her by it. I read recently an early blog entry of mine which stated that my Chubs was a very nervous cat, starting at every sound. She no longer does this. She has lost weight and, in poundage, is no longer a chubs. But her health, a subject of some scrutiny on my part, remains good, so far as I and her doctors are aware. She has become a warm-hearted middle-aged cat, about fourteen now, always ready for a face-rub, or a helping of her new food, Z/D. She is my tiny-headed, alien-faced friend, a long way from our beginnings together and, I hope, an even longer way from our end.

Holidayland

It’s time for my annual holidays again! Last year, I went to Biscuit City. This year, at four o'clock today, I leave for the Utopia pictured above. I call it Holidayland. I don’t think it’s real, which fits me just fine, because I couldn’t really go there, if it were. But I will be there, nonetheless, for three weeks. I have plenty to do while I’m away: cleaning cat-trees, for instance, and working on the PAW Society’s calendar. But I will have plenty of time to do them, so I am not worried. The cats are faring well - though I don’t want to write too much about that; as soon as I do, the situation changes. I will continue to add to my blog, and visit others’ - though it may not be every day -  while I’m in Holidayland, so anyone who wishes it will be kept apprised of life on this end.

Until then, I think I will take a boat and drift aimlessly on the water, and see what is on whatever green and grassy shore we touch upon…