Dear Sunny:

Dear Sunny,

As long as I have trapped, I have formed a sort of formal attachment to the cats with whom I work. I consider them beloved coworkers, or favored clients, if you will. That being said, yesterday opened up a kind of raw emotion in me that has so far been unprecedented.

You came to us kicking and screaming the last week of June from a neighborhood who clearly had no love lost at your departure. During one phone call, your life was even threatened. I felt anger at those who would cause you ill will, and I felt the need to protect you, but I did not love you, even in the largesse of my concern.

You certainly did not love us. You did not love your large cage that was much more sizable than the trap in which you arrived. You did not love hanging upside down from the china cabinet, although you managed it. You did not love the underside of the bench in my kitchen, although you sought refuge there. You did not love the other temporary residents, although you tolerated them much more than you tolerated Jason or me. You did not love the dog, and made this known with a sound that may not have previously reached any human ears. I don't believe you loved my fingers, although since you made a great attempt at their removal, it is hard to be sure. You did not love the car, the vet, or your recovery period, and reiterated this as often as possible.

And in this lovelessness, you embody the essence of the feral cat. You are wild, you are frightened, you are distrusting. You are independent, and you are capable of taking care of yourself. So why, why was it so hard to release you last night? Because I returned you, not to a colony, where there is guaranteed food, and someone to quietly see that your needs are met, but to an area which promises you nothing but harm, hunger, and a life on the run.

Sunny, I hope you were able to find somewhere safe to spend the night. I hope you found food this morning. I hope that you were sufficiently healed, and that you are able to make your way in the world. I hope that we were able to impact you so that you remember us fondly, now that you are far, far away - particularly from the dog and the vet. Most of all, I want you to know that I realized how much you mean to me when you raced from your trap with speed that a Tasmanian devil would envy, and made your way through the woods with a nimbleness that only comes with time and familiarity.

Godspeed to you, and blessings upon you.

Love,

Lizz

Stay Here Witchoo? Fughettaboudit.

It is always a spectrum of emotions when it comes to colony keepers and their feral cats. Some are colony keepers not by choice but by moral dilemma. They got saddled with ferals in one way or another - either they came with the property, wandered there on their own, or got dumped by some irresponsible individual, who couldn't be bothered. They can't make themselves dispose of the cats, so they feed them and complain to whomever will listen. Others are so deeply attached that they would do anything for their babies. They make sure that they're fixed, keep their shots updated, and generally take care of the cats to the best of their abilities. Bugsy Seigel is lucky enough to have one of the latter. (Did I mention his last name could be Luciano?)

I called his colony keeper earlier in the week to let her know Bugsy's prognosis. Enraged, I think, is the best way to describe her reaction to the discovery of the bullet wounds and his overall physical condition. She fumed and promised that a trip to the vet to see what could be done about the lodged bullets would be in the near future, and that there would be no chance for a repeat episode. She said, "Well, I don't know who owned him before, or who dropped him, but I know who he belongs to now, and he's stayin' in the house with me!"  I personally don't know how Bugsy is going to feel about losing his outdoor hunting ground, but I have a feeling he's not going to argue about access to the couch and air conditioning. He's no fool. Now he'll be able to watch Sopranos reruns and wonder why he didn't think of that first.

It really wasn't much effort to get him into the carrier this afternoon. I showed him his favorite bag of treats and made a trail from his tower to the cat carrier. Bugsy followed them, and while he wasn't crazy about the thought of being in a small box, he didn't put up much fuss. He knew he was going home. There's really no sense in fighting when you're getting what you want.

When he got inside his new home, he ambled confidently into the bedroom to greet the master of the house. His new Godfather scooped him up and told him that he'd be staying with them. I was somewhat surprised that Bugsy not only allowed this but rested his head on the man's shoulder. As I said, this cat's no fool, and as the great gangster himself said, “Everybody deserves a fresh start every once in a while.”

Someone Made Him an Offer He Couldn't Refuse

I spent part of this evening with the gangster still residing in my dining room. My guess that he's pretty hard core was on the money. The cat is riddled with bullets from what is likely a .22. My opinion of human beings continues to sink. My theory is that he had some long and unpleasant discussions with the neighbor's cat. Or dog. Or given the size and nature of the cat, livestock. He's not one for small potatoes.

Whoever trumped his arguments left their remnants in his shoulders and hips, and I think, one at the base of his tail. He's lucky that nothing shattered. Perhaps Bugsy was not the right gangster, and his last name is actually Luciano. Whatever it is, he's not going to tell me. I'm sure the Witness Protection Program has this guy on speed dial.

What I am not sure of is what to do about the bullets. I suppose they could stay there. I am fairly certain he wouldn't be the first feral cat to carry this kind of baggage. His wounds are beginning to heal. No bones have been obviously broken, and the cat, for the most part, is intact. He and I have worked and reworked the contract on touching, and I have been able to brush away enough scabs to reform a cat his size, and remove many, many ticks, all for payments of wet cat food, minced beef, and salmon flavored cat treats. He probably needs a Lyme test, which is doable. Surgery to remove all of his little hitch hikers is not - at least, not for the time being. We simply cannot afford it and we are too new to have a good enough relationship with a vet practice who would let us make payments. All of our spay/neuter surgeries come from the good people at CASPCA. It is a dilemma, to be sure.

For now, he continues to convalesce. He is in pain and it shows when you touch any of the offending spots. He flinches, yowls, and bares his teeth in a way that brooks no argument. I don't know if he will remain this way, or eventually if scar tissue will form around the metal. I just don't know, and I will have to do some research and make some phone calls to find out.

Bugsy Siegl in an Overcoat

I had one tube of feline Revolution left today, and I just put it on a very large male tom, who has enough ticks to start his own blood bank. I'm not sure if he has mites, but if he has ticks, I know he has fleas. He's also got something that looks like marbles on his side and it pains him to be picked up. Yes, I picked him up. No, don't try this at home. It's generally a good way to need to go to the blood bank yourself. In this case, he's ill enough that he let me, and hurt enough that the neighbors may think I'm sacrificing a pig.

He's an interesting fellow. He's got a long scratch across his face, and enough old  - and new - wounds that I'm sure he's been fighting in the streets for quite awhile. He's pompous and charismatic, and reminds me Bugsy Siegel. He's probably just as crazy. I feel the need to add that he also appears to be dyslexic, and I know this because he mixed his water (which was in frame, so it was impressive) with his clay litter and made mortar, in which he promptly bathed. I had to explain to him that the mobster gives the cement overcoat to some OTHER unsuspecting sucker to take a bath in. And this is why I lifted him: to change the whole bottom of the cage, and to wipe the mortar off of him. He attempted to explain to me that I was not going to wipe him off. I showed him that I had a can of Fancy Feast, and all of a sudden, he was willing to compromise. I was able to get his face, his right side, and his tail while he ate. He then told me that I was not going to wash the left side, and I agreed with him. I got the worst of it - he can do the rest himself. Or he can leave it there. Who am I to argue with a cat who has paws big enough to carry a Tommy gun?

The real question remains, what to do. He's ill, and it's probably something serious. He is presently in a cat tower that I reserve for cats who need to stay together, kittens or long term patients.  He may be a long term patient. I scheduled a surgery with Dr. Beichel at CASPCA this morning to go ahead and get him neutered on Friday, and I'm hoping that she'll be able to check him over while he's under and therefore not able to take out her eyes with his very filthy and somewhat misshapen claws. Or his Tommy gun. Whichever.

Right now, my border collie, Bristol, is sitting beside the cage, and he seems amiable to her presence. She has an interesting way with feral cats, when she's not trying to herd them or steal their food. They often tend to be tolerant of her desire to spend time with them. In this case, I have no idea what they're chatting about, but if she starts wearing a Fedora or toting a violin case, I'll have a good idea.

Thirteen. And a Small History.

Eleven. That's how many four-month-old kittens are in the cat tower in the dining room. The two young mothers to whom the clowder belong are staring balefully at me from a smaller dog crate. None of them are particularly feral, but they were dumped at a woman's house as she was in the process of moving, and she asked if I would fix them for her. I don't mind. She's looking high and low for new homes for the kittens, which is responsible of her. And if they are already spayed/neutered with shots, they have a much better chance of finding those homes, and no chance at all of expanding their gene pool. It's a win-win-win situation.

Usually, these expeditions involve days of traps baited with wet cat food or, if I need to pull out big guns, rotisserie chicken. It often happens in inclement weather, as Murphy is a close friend of mine. My husband helps, and together, we take phone calls from people in our community, go trap cats (or occasionally a 'possum, raccoon, or, in one unfortunate instance, a skunk), take them to the shelter in the next county who has a vet on site, and get them spayed or neutered and vaccinated with a rabies and a distemper, plus whatever other medical care they may need. Then they come back here and convalesce until they are ready to go back to whence they came. And then off to trap again, and the cycle continues. A halfway house for feral cats, if you will.

I like what I do. And in appreciation, I do get phone calls, thank you notes, traps or money for traps, cat food, or what-have-you. Do cats what I like what I do? Not immediately, if at all, and it probably doesn't occur to them to be thankful later when they aren't having litter #2043. I'm okay with that, too. I've heard time and time again: be the change you want to see. I have rearranged that. I am the change I don't want to see. I don't want to see starving, flea ridden, over-impregnated ferals who are giving birth to babies with heads and legs on backwards, who have to be euthanized upon arrival. I don't want to see cats who were too much of an inconvenience, and thrown out of moving vehicles, or dumped on the side of the road to die in the traffic. I don't want to find kids were who "having some fun" by setting the neighborhood stray cat on fire for Hallowe'en. So, I TNR (trap/neuter/release) and I will continue until my county is no longer overrun - and then I will begin again, because nature abhors a vacuum.

In the meantime, the thirteen who are gracing my dining room are going to have their dinner, generously donated by PetCo and my Treasurer's wife, while we await a callback from CASPCA for their impending surgeries.