If you read my previous post “Days like these….”, let me say that when I went to pick-up Mrs. Wix, I found she was declawed, so I had to pass her up. My felines must work for food, and without claws, the mice et al would overrun us. My search for a second mouse catcher continued. I rescued a fluffy, gray, emerald green eyed “gray malkin”, mainly because she looked so much like my deceased “Queen Ozma”, a gorgeous french Chartreux cat that once owned me.
This new cat, her foster care giver told me, had scratched the guy at the kill shelter, but was very sweet. Yes, I was forewarned I might have a catamount on my hands; however, I might have scratched him too. Getting this new addition to the cat-pack has been an adventure; she remained virtually un-named for more than a month – no name suited her.
During this new cat on the block ordeal, King of Oklolo Ranch and previously our only cat, Kitty Murr, (Named for The Life and Adventures of Tom Cat Murr”, Hoffman) daily, nightly, and sporadically showed his distinct displeasure of the intruder by alternately caterwalling, cat-calling, hissing, and growling at her. He jumped and catapulted himself up against me in catlytic attacks, aiming about 3 foot high with a full body slam, to let me know unconditionally, that bringing another cat into his castle was a bad move. He tried to convey in his catechetic way that he was the only cat – he was mighty put out!
The first night after the small gray furry female arrived, and after about a 2 hour drive from Plano, TX, she was scared to death. She did let me pet her, but was very wary – she was like a wild animal – a catamount. I could tell by her ears that stroking her was very little tolerated. I actually thought it went well, and went to bed. My husband had had eye surgery for cataracts the day before, and he is allergic to cats (yes I know, that’s another saga – he did insist on having 2 cats though) so I didn’t let the cats in our room that night. I was cautious that cat hair might get in his eye, or he might catch catarrh. I left “no-name” the gray and Kitty Murr to get acquainted – at this point, his display of kitty fits had not reared it’s ugly head, they actually touched noses! The turning point of mental kitty breakdown for our new arrival came that night, or actually early morning at about 2:00 a.m. The worst thunder and hail, a hell storm of cataclysmic porportion, broke out, it had been brewing all day. The wind was howling, torrential rain and hail pelted against the windows of the house threatening to break them; lightening lit up the room like Las Vegas, and the thunder was so loud the house shook. Needless to say, it woke me up and I ran into the living room to check on the cats.
Kitty Murr was hiding under the sofa. She who had no name had disappeared! Where the hell had she gone? They were purposely contained in a catchment area – the small living room off the kitchen, and the mud room, closed off from the rest of the house. She must have thought she was not in a safe zone or she had been transported to kitty hell; the storm blustered on for over 30 minutes! I looked into every nook, cranny and catacomb – no sign of the gray. For three days, I did not see her. She had virtually vanished! I ran through a catalog of places she might hide – no sign. It continued to rain for weeks.
Finally, several days later, after I had let Murr and Einstien, the Weimeranner, outside one morning, she appeared out of nowhere, softly, like a cat-burglar. Hunger must have finally driven her out of hiding. I never did figure out where she hid. I catered to her for about 2 months after that first night, trying to help her assimilate into our household. Kitty Murr was segregated, Einstein was holed up alone in the kitchen, I called, cajoled and pleaded and then ignored the gray, hoping she would soon figure out she was safe and had found a nice, new home, but to no avail. Out of desperation, a catharsis arrived for her when I decided to put her out of doors. It was categorically imperative for me to find a way to neutralize her catatonia; I intuited that she needed to get out of the clausterphobic house where she felt threaten by all that had happened, aggravated by my other pets, sudden movement or noise. It was a cat-ch 22 – she could remain physically safe in the house, but mentally agitated, or I could put her outside which would be a catastasis, the risks of the great unknown outside (such as owls, coyotes, the road), but mentally healing under the sky with the soft grass beneath her feet. Catch as catch can, I threw caution to the wind and pushed open the screen door – out she went! She immediately ran and hid under the catamaran, hoping to dodge Kitty Murr and prevent an all out cats-n-dogs quarrel.
The cat matcher rescue group, in their catty way, made me promise the cat would never go outside. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate all they do for the lost cats who they rescue, and they do a good job. But, here we must part ways where it comes to knowing what is best for an individual cat. (Hope they don’t read this since I’m letting the cat out of the bag) The rescue group would probably categorize me as a horrible match for the gray, and they would most likely wish to see me spin on a Catherine Wheel or be lashed with the Cat-o’-nine-tails for my decision to release her into the wild of my acreage. However, I know cats too, and due to my cathexis, investment of emotional significance in her at this point, I really wanted her to feel safe and become a content kitty. Because of the catena of her past history, whatever they may have been, she was a scared, untrusting being, but with a sweet soul yearning for a warm lap. We had to get her there; my intuition proved right.
Little by little, gray cat found her courage and stealthily and then more boldly explored her new domain, as only a cat can. Apparently the catenate of hunting catydids, caterpillars, cat-napping in the catmint, and making a virtual cat’s cradle over the entire 7 acres, the gray found her cattiness again. It took several weeks before the first major transformation of the gray. One evening I called to the kitties in that catchy phrase “here kitty, kitty, kitty”, to come home and inside for the night, to keep them safe, warm and content in all their catness. A small gray catkin gracefully appeared on the cat-walk railing of the porch to greet me with a tiny, and soft as a cat’s whisker, meow. She also found a new name that night, with the sky of rain clouds hovering above us – Cloudy.
It doesn’t take a philospher like Cato to figure out that sometimes there must be a catalyst for change. And sometimes, you must follow your instinct and go with what you know, despite what well meaning others may think. Kitty Cloudy knows her place at Oklolo Ranch now, Kitty Murr has accepted the princess, and Einstein, well, he’s still Einstein – wants to play, but the cat’s just aren’t interested. Kitty Cloudy comes in each night to cuddle up on her favorite chair and hopefully dreams of mice!
