This blog post is brought to you by, Amy Voltaire.
Never Say “Never”
Tuesday, October 29th, is National Cat Day. According to the calendar, every day of the year is a day to be celebrated and is therefore dubbed National Something Day. Many days have several “somethings” to be celebrated, which works well for those who like to have options. My favorite so far (aside from Festivus, of course) is January 16th: National Nothing Day, a day dedicated to doing nothing. (Side note: If you plan to observe National Nothing Day, taking a leave day from work is probably a good idea.)
If you’re interested in finding out what you should be celebrating each day, here’s a helpful link: https://www.nationaldaycalendar.com
With National Cat Day approaching, I decided it would be a good time to write about my cat. He wasn’t always my cat. In fact, I didn’t want him to be my cat. It’s funny how sometimes the things we think we don’t want are the things that end up being blessings in disguise.
My cat, Gabriel, a.k.a. “Kitty” (I know, I know, so original), died the day before my birthday about five years ago; my birthday sucked that year. I promptly got rid of everything of his: cat treats, cat food, cat toys, and the litter box I had cleaned daily for the past (roughly) 5,800 days. I knew that I would not get another cat. I loved and missed him, but I didn’t miss the fur or the litter box. Also, my dog, Lily, was old and cantankerous; she would not do well with a new animal in the house.
A little over a year later, I was getting ready for bed and heard what sounded like a kitten mewing. I followed the sound outside and realized a kitten was trapped under my deck. I called to him, and after a minute or two, he found his way out from under the deck. As it turned out, he wasn’t crying because he was trapped; he was crying for his mother, who had apparently abandoned him. I grabbed him and took him to the emergency vet, where one of the vet techs adopted him. He was big enough to walk, and his eyes were open, but he wasn’t weaned and had to be bottle-fed, so I was glad that the vet took him in because I couldn’t take weeks off work to bottle-feed a kitten.
A few nights later, Lily stood at the back door barking. I looked to see why she was so riled up, and there, sitting on my back deck, staring back at me with pure hatred, was a brown/black and grayish tabby cat. As I stood there wondering why this cat was giving me the evil eye, three little kittens emerged from under the deck and began to waddle around the flowerbed. She hadn’t abandoned her kitten after all–she’d been moving her kittens to their new home, and the one I thought I was rescuing had simply been the first one she’d dropped off at their new home.
I’ve never been able to read human minds, let alone animal minds, but that night, I didn’t need to be Dr. Doolittle to know what she was thinking: You stole my kitten, you vile b***ch. But now, I had another problem. Left to their own devices, those kittens would soon grow into (unfixed) feral adults and quickly multiply. So, I decided I’d kidnap the rest of the kittens, one by one, bring each inside to get them domesticated, and then find them homes. Of course, I’d have to wait until they were weaned and then capture them quickly because to domesticate a feral cat, you must catch them before they are 8 weeks old. After the age of 8 weeks, if a kitten has not yet been socialized, it is—in most cases—always destined to be feral.
Over the next few weeks, I was able to catch all three of them. The first two warmed up to me within a day, and went to a new home the following day. The last one, however, was different. He was the hardest one to catch—after witnessing the abduction of his siblings, he knew that the food dish was perilously close to the kidnapper. Eventually, his growling belly won out, and the moment he approached the bowl, alien, furless claws sprang forth and captured him.
I (the owner of the furless claws) took him inside and attempted to socialize him. But he was too distressed to eat or drink. He cowered behind the toilet, his tongue hung out of his mouth, and his eyes were as big as the tires on my car. When I reached out to pet him, he hissed at me. I knew this one was too far gone to tame, so after a few days, I had no choice but to release him, with the promise (yes, I spoke the words) that when he was old enough, I’d catch him again and this time I’d get him neutered. I’d already planned to trap his mom and get her fixed, but unfortunately, the day before her appointment was the last time I saw her. It was as if she knew.
Not only did she go on the lam, but she also left her little juvenile delinquent at my house to fend for himself. Knowing I couldn’t take him in, I did the next best thing—I bought him an outdoor cat house (with a heated pad) and purchased a heated water dish. I painted “Lil’ A’s Crib” on his house (by this time, he had a name) and accepted that I now had an outdoor cat to care for. He’d show up daily, ready for breakfast and dinner, and at night, he’d paw on the glass door for treats. This repeated daily for a couple of years.
Then, one day in January of 2023, Lil’ A didn’t show up for breakfast. That night, he didn’t come for dinner, either. One day turned into two days, and after I hadn’t seen him for three days, I started to worry. I searched for him for weeks and even prayed about it. Now, at the risk of sounding corny or like a religious nut, I’m going to tell you the truth—I made God a promise: “God, if he’s alive somewhere and hurt, please help him get back to me, and I’ll take him in and care for him for the rest of his life.”
When almost a month had passed, with no sign of Lil’ A, I had to accept that he was probably gone forever. I figured someone had either taken him in or, more likely, a coyote or some other predator had killed him; I chose to believe the former. Exactly one month after the day he disappeared, I was eating dinner, and I heard the familiar squeak-squeak-squeak sound of him scratching on the glass with wet paws. He’d come back. He was dirty, looked starved, and was bleeding. He let me put him in the pet crate, only putting up a small fight (probably for show). I took him to the emergency vet and brought him home the following day. For months, he lived in the same bathroom that had once been his prison cell, wearing the dreaded “cone of shame” to keep him from pulling out his stitches. After that, his living area included the bedroom and then the upstairs, and now, he enjoys having the run of the house.
I don’t know where he was for that month or what happened to him. I think he was trapped somewhere because his wounds were fresh, yet he had lost more than half of his body weight and was severely dehydrated. I think he had gotten skinny enough to break free from wherever he was, and the wounds were caused by whatever had trapped him; one wound was a long, deep cut as if he’d pushed his way through something like barbed wire. I’ll never know where he was or what happened to him, but whatever it was must have been traumatic because now, if I open the door to go outside, he runs away from it instead of towards it. He likes to sit and look through the glass but has no desire to be out there.
For the most part, Lily ignores Lil’ A, but the two have a nightly ritual: when I take Lily out for last call, Lil’ A stands at the front door watching us until I take her leash off and open the door. She half-heartedly chases him to the corner, where they both stop dead in their tracks, make quick eye contact, and then go on about the business of ignoring each other again.
Five years ago, when I had to say goodbye to Kitty, I swore I would never get another cat. And I meant it.
Because of Lil’ A, I’ve learned never to say “never” (and doesn’t that statement contradict itself, anyway?). Because no matter how many “nevers” you say, there’s always a possibility that God (or the universe, or whatever you believe in) has other plans for you.
By Amy Voltaire
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