I was not a kitten. I had already lived enough to know that life can change on a dime, and not always for the better. A short time before, I had been someone’s special fur baby — cared for sweetly, lovingly. Then my person up and died, and I was tossed outside without a second thought and no discussion!
Suddenly homeless and cold, with nothing to eat, I was left to fend for myself in a world meant for rougher, harder-living cats.Then I was caught and captured along with a few other cats from the wild colony I had joined.
And so there I was, in the basement of the vet’s office when she found me, alone and sad.I did not expect much from this onlooker. So when she stopped in front of my cage and looked at me, I remained still, held my breath — but watched her closely. Very closely. She had the look of someone who was not merely passing through. Her eyes rested on me. Her voice was soft as she explained how much she loved my green eyes and red tabby fur. Some kind of fascination with ginger cats, I suppose.
My adoption was arranged that very day by this visiting lady, and a few days later I was tucked into a travel crate and told by the staff that I was “going home.”I was lugged out to the waiting car as the hatch slowly opened and . . . surprise! In the back were two other cats in crates.
And this is how I first met my housemates, Lucky Magoo and Leo. My new owner placed our crates in a kind of star, all facing inward. It seemed she understood that before we could share a home, we had to engage in that curious, silent exchange among cats.
Neutral turf. Her car.
There was staring, blinking, squinting, and looking away. A paw licked now and again. But conversation, you know — the silent type.
No hissing. No spitting. No ugly drama. No theatrics. I’m talking zero. Phew. Oh, happy day. . . Mind you, I was still nervous.
I felt Lucky’s presence first. A solid, medium-sized, regal gray cat (possibly Chartreux) with white tuxedo markings and white paws, she was clearly the lead cat. Even through the crate, I could sense that she was not one to be taken lightly. Alert and sharp as a tack, her yellow-eyed gaze was steady and appraising. I understood fast that to enter this new habitat securely, it would be under Lucky’s approval.
Leo was different. He was openly curious and clearly eager to be buddies. He was also a red tabby like me, only younger, with a white chest and paws that gave him a fresh-scrubbed look. If Lucky was law, Leo felt like a friend.
So I sat quietly while the two of them assessed me, and I assessed them in return. Then we were moving . . . backing up, rolling forward — onward!
But homecoming was delayed. We pulled into an enormous parking lot, and I was gripped by one terrible thought: this new owner could dump all three of us right here! Instead, she explained that she needed to stop at the mall to buy a wedding gift. And take her time, she did. Hours.
Still, I get it now. She wanted us to go deep and really get to know one another. This new owner of mine believed cats, like dogs, do better when introductions begin on neutral ground. Maybe she was right, because that long social pause in the car was where we shared the important things about our pasts.
During this meet and greet, I learned that Leo had also come from this same vet, who was known for rescuing local strays. That was one of our common bonds. And Lucky, too, had once lived outside, tossed from her own world as a kitten and forced to survive in a vegetable garden until bonding with our owner, who tamed and rescued her.And I shared my story too: living with an old woman who loved me, then losing her; joining a cat colony; getting into fights I did not like, but had to for survival. I had learned boundaries the hard way while living outdoors as the new stray.
Finally, we reached the house, and Lucky and Leo were let out of their crates. I remained in mine for a while longer. They circled my crate carefully and silently, taking in every inch of me. Even if all seemed all right on the surface, I knew this was their ground, and I respected it. A hiss came. Then another, followed by a low growl. Definitely Lucky, telling me not to try any funny stuff.
But there was no charge in it, no violence. No mean-cat grimaces. Leo laid down in front of me and stayed there a long while. When I was thrown outside after my first owner died, I had been aggressed as the newbie. But this was nothing like the feral-cat domain. These two were well fed, warm, and satisfied with life.When my crate door opened, I stepped carefully into my new life.
A few hisses.
A pause.
Some long looks.
And then, to my great surprise: amazing grace — peace.
I took refuge on a kitchen chair pushed under the table. Soon I poached a few toys and placed them beneath me the way a hen sits on her eggs. That little pile became my security blanket.
Lights out. Calm night.
The next day, it was as if I had always been there. It was the weekend, so I got to meet the neighbor lady, who also had a cat named Rocky. Across the way, yet another neighbor had a cat named Midnight. Me? I had apparently been accepted by the Welcome Committee.
Things went so well that when the humans went off to work, we cats would hang out on Rocky’s patio. One day, Rocky’s person came home to find all of us seated indoors in the living room on chairs and couches. Rocky had invited us in through his person’s special window. Not bad for a former outsider.
It is no small thing to be allowed into the fold as an adult cat. This kind of harmony does not always happen. The vet said I was about five when I was adopted into my new home. That day brought me joy and relief at being chosen. Even though I was not a kitten, I fit right in, joining a little feline pride.
All went well for years until it was discovered that I had FIV. But that, my friends, is a another story as this tale is part of a book of larger series that is in progress.