Taking care of twenty-three homeless cats is like being The Enabler in twenty-three marriages. When friends suggest a Twelve-Step Program, you say, “No, really, everything’s fine . . . .”
I wasn’t always like this. I used to be a serial monogamist, but now, I’ve lost all control, and it’s not my fault; do you hear me? Not-my-fault. Nick Manelli, a.k.a., “Uncle Nicky,” got me hooked thirteen years ago, and he did it in plain sight.
I was out for an innocent stroll around the lake near my home when I saw him drive up in his tricked-out red convertible. He was carrying two heavy bags. I watched the first cat trot up to greet him; then another, and another and another and another. You get the picture. Since I had seen only one cat on my previous walks, I stopped to ask him what was going on.
He reached down to give each of his cats a little scratch behind the ears, a little food, and said, “I’ve been doing this for seventeen years now,” and, just like that, I was a goner. I already had a Siamese cat named Muffin at home and plenty of cat food, so I rationalized: I’ll just feed the cats who come up on this side of the hill-what could it hurt? And now I’m in so deep I couldn’t get out even if I wanted to.
At last count it’s twenty-three that I’m feeding, fixing, and, like any good spouse, counseling. I like to think that I’m putting my psychotherapy training to good use. If anyone were to set up a hidden camera to follow me on my rounds-well, let me put it this way, I’d hate for that video to end up on YouTube.
There I’d be on the small screen yelling at a chubby black cat, “Dammit, Blackberry, come back here and eat. Leave Sweetie Pie alone!” And then I’d say to Sweetie Pie, a small, highly sensitive gray tiger, “Don’t let him push you around so much,” but she’s one-third the size of Blackberry, and she hates him. Last year, an emergency trip to the vet to clean up a bite wound in her side cost me $80. I suspect that the evildoer was Blackberry, but I can’t prove it. He’s as sweet as pie to the human who feeds and pets and talks to him.
On down the hill near Buster Hollow, I’d be caught on camera telling Girly-Girl, a sassy Tiger of a cat, how beautiful she is, and how smart, and “what a good mouser!” (I always try to rescue the mouse, but I know it’s important to her to be acknowledged for her mighty huntress skills.) She’s also a self-designated leader, walking several feet ahead of me down the path, frequently looking over her shoulder to make sure I’m still following along.
One day, just to mess with her, I started weaving from one side of the path to the other. She kept up with me for a few feet, zig-zagging back and forth. Then suddenly she stopped, turned around, and smacked me on the ankle with her paw as if to say, “You think this is funny!? I’m your Guide Cat-come on, Girl, get with the program!”
Next, I’d be seen petting Buster, a chubby Cheshire with four white paws and a white bib. He mysteriously appeared at the lake one day, and I spent the next three years wooing him. He would always stay about twenty feet away and watch as I knelt down, fed, and petted the others-Green Eyes, Blackie-One, Sonny Gray (Sweetie Pie’s son), and Prancer. Each time I saw him, I would call out his name, but he’d keep his distance.
Then, one afternoon, while I was kneeling on the road, feeding Green Eyes on my right, I noticed an unfamiliar cat pressing against my left thigh. It took me a few moments to realize it was Buster. I very slowly placed my left hand on his back, kept it still for while, then moved it up to his scruff. He froze. There I was, participating once again in the nine-thousand-year-old bond between cat and human.
During all the time I’ve spent with them, I’ve marveled at what big suckers they are for human touch, even the older ones. If ever I can lay my hands on a cat just once, he’s mine forever. Call me the “Cat Whisperer” or call me nuts, I don’t care-I am beyond the reach of any recovery program.
I’ve tried to trap Priscilla, a beautiful Siamese-Tabby, to get her fixed, but she has outsmarted me every time. She’s another “highly sensitive” cat, who likes very slow, gentle caresses on her cheeks-not for her the rowdy petting that the guys enjoy. She appeared at the lake two years ago and a year later suddenly came over to greet me by licking my hand.
Six months back, Priscilla gave birth to a kitten whose face is reminiscent of a baby bear. That makes number twenty-four. I’ve tried to resist, really I have, but yesterday I was certain that I heard the opening strains of Wagner’s “Here Comes the Bride,” and another sound-was that the familiar “pop” of a Fancy Feast can being opened?
“With this ring…” Oh, no! Would someone please stop me before I marry again?
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Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.