I was never a cat person. I like dogs, all dogs, with their tail-wagging, needy, love me, love me, personae. (Can you use “personae” when you’re writing about animals? Well, guess what – I just did.) Now that I’ve declared myself and antagonized all the feline faithful out there, I’m going to qualify my first sentence. Hint: Please take note of the tense.
Let’s go back a few years to a sunny October day. I looked out my kitchen window and saw two kittens playing in a pile of dried leaves. Both had their backs to me. The larger one, probably a male I guessed, was an orange tabby – the other was cream colored with black ears, black legs and tail to match. I caught my breath. “What is a Siamese kitten doing in the wild?” I wondered out loud. Then she turned around. Her little face was tan like her body, but she had a black patch over one eye and faint orange streaks on the side of her face.
I ran outside to get a better look and it was the kittens’ turn to stare. Two miniature pairs of eyes – one green, the other very blue — scrutinized me cautiously. Their decision was made in seconds and in total agreement. The kitties raced off without ever looking back. But I fell in love that day, even though I was not a cat person.
I watched for them after that. They were usually chaperoned by their mother, a beautiful Calico with a fluffy tail. When I tried to approach the babies, they ran away. Sometimes, I spotted the orange tabby by himself. His plaintive meows tore at my heart. I rushed to bring him food, but he always fled in terror, mewing as he went. I had no idea what he wanted.
The days were getting shorter and colder and I made up my mind to bring the kittens inside before winter came. The calico cat, finished with her mothering role, was still around, but no longer stayed with the babies. They were on their own. I set out food to attract them, but my offerings were often ignored. Still, they were very aware of my presence. One evening, I saw them near the front door peeping around the corner of the house, as though they were staking it out. That made me even more determined. The first snowfall came and went. Time was against me — and the kittens.
My only hope was trapping them. I called the vet for help and was told to contact Animal Lifeline, a local rescue group. A couple of days later, a woman drove up and began unloading her car. She had not only brought a humane trap, but a giant cage in which to keep the kittens — and a litter box, that with a bit of luck, would get to be used. It was December and the weather had turned icy cold, but this kind and dedicated woman would not be deterred. She stayed a while and we talked about the kittens. She said they were probably litter mates, brother and sister, who had developed a special bond. She explained how to use the trap and what to do when and if the kittens cooperated. I thanked her and again clarified that I was not a cat person. She said she understood, wished me luck and asked that I keep in touch. The trap was set up nearby where I could watch it. The kittens continued to come by, but carefully avoided capture.
The end of the month brought a fierce snowstorm that held the area in its grip for 48 hours. I was sick with worry about the little cats. There was no sign of them anywhere. I knew that their chances of survival faded with each passing day.
Then, on New Year’s Eve, I spotted the orange kitten outside the house. I opened the door and in he walked. He had made it through the snow alone. His sister and constant companion was nowhere to be seen. My heart broke. I placed a bowl of food inside the cage and he walked in docilely. He sat there forlornly, meowing loudly as he had done in the wild. Two more days went by and the meowing continued. He made a number of attempts to get out but soon gave up. He appeared traumatized, but he wouldn’t stop crying.
The storm finally ended, leaving high drifts and below freezing temperatures in its wake. I was beginning to believe that I would never see the smaller kitten again. Then a small mewing sound drew my attention to the front of the house. There she was, seeking shelter under the archway. I ran out, snatched her up and brought her inside where I quickly put her in the cage with her brother. He immediately stopped meowing and looked up at me as if to say, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.
What a joyous reunion it was! The kittens snuggled and licked each other over and again. Then the orange tabby put his paws on his sister’s head as though to protect her — and they both fell asleep.
Life is not perfect and there was a down side to the happy ending. Both cats were sick and needed treatment. During each visit to the vet, I explained that I was not a cat person, but …
That’s not the end of the story; it’s the beginning. I call my home “The Peaceable Kingdom.” My aging dog loves the cats. My cats love the dog and I love all of them.
I was speaking with the rescue lady recently and she said, “You sound like a cat person.” I guess I am; but I’m also a dog person and a people person. Maybe it’s not such a bad world after all.
Copyright 2015 Harriet Posnak Lesser
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Harriet Posnak Lesser is an award-winning journalist and social satirist whose articles have appeared in Long Island’s The South Shore Record and Nassau Herald, The New York Times, Cracked Magazine and others.