My faithful readers will remember the story I told about finding—and nearly rescuing—the kitten on the subway tracks a while back. They’ll remember my explanation about how sometimes, when something potentially tragic begins to happen, I get powerfully and nonsensically convinced that I was put in exactly that place and time for a reason and that I have a moral responsibility to take action.
My readers will also remember how I’m a bit of a self-described “crazy cat lady.”
Well, it seems that these two characteristics of mine, when combined, tend to have potentially catastrophic results, because it happened again.
I didn’t see another kitten on the subway tracks (I think if that ever happens to me again, I might not be able to ride SEPTA anymore). But this story has the same general framework as the previous rescue tale did: a kitten in distress, me preparing to take ridiculous action, and, upon thinking things through at a later point, realizing that I am insane.
As I’ve mentioned, or at least alluded to, previously in this blog, I volunteer with a cat adoption agency that rents space in the South Philly PetSmart called Forgotten Cats. We’re not like the SPCA: we don’t really have a shelter outside of the various PetSmart adoption centers. We’re no-kill, and all of our cats available for adoption, before coming to PetSmart, are cared for by a foster family until they’re ready to be adopted, both health-wise and personality-wise.
Because of all this, we can’t take cats from people who bring them to us in an attempt to surrender them. They could be sick or FIV or FeLV positive. They probably haven’t been sterilized. We have no idea what their personalities are like. However, word gets around that we’re a no-kill organization, so people try what they can to sucker us into taking their cats off their hands.
One night a few weeks ago, I had stopped by PetSmart to do an adoption. It wasn’t supposed to take very long, so Brad came along with me to buy some pet supplies and then to wait out in the car until I was finished. While I was in the process of filling out the paperwork with the new pet parents, another volunteer stopped by to take photos of Scarlett, a one-eyed beauty of a cat who was available for adoption, to put on our holiday brochure.
I’d just finished up the adoption and was chatting with the other volunteer for a minute while she took photos of Scarlett. If I had left as soon as I’d finished the adoption like I should have, instead of chatting and making Brad wait in the car even longer, I would have missed the woman with the tiny gray kitten in her arms and none of this would have had to happen. If only I hadn’t stopped to chat for that one minute.
But I did stop to chat, so I didn’t miss the woman. The other volunteer and I both noticed her creep up to us cautiously, saying nothing at first. We shared a wary look, each knowing what the other was thinking: Please just let this person be a normal pet owner with a normal pet question. Please please please.
No such luck.
“Do you guys work here?” she asked. We hesitated, because technically the answer was no, we just volunteered with the cats, but we knew what she meant.
“Um, sort of?” the other volunteer replied hesitantly.
That was all it took for this woman to launch into her sob story about how she found this kitten in her yard and she was allergic to cats so she couldn’t keep it, but she didn’t want to bring it to the SPCA because she knew they’d kill it, and she didn’t know what else to do, and someone had told her that “yous guys don’t kill your cats and maybe I could bring him here.”
I must say, I was the strong one at first. I tried to resist. “We’re not allowed to take in cats like this,” I stated, trying to be simple and matter-of-fact about it. “We can’t. Sorry.”
But the problem was, the kitten was so damn cute.
The other volunteer fell immediately into its tiny, big-eyed trap. “Well…” she said. That one word was enough to give the woman the hope she’d been looking for.
“Please take her. Please. I don’t know what else to do with her,” she said again.
Then I made the fatal mistake of taking the kitten out of her arms and holding her in my own. What a stupid thing to do.
She was so beautiful. Her gray fur was full and healthy. Her eyes were huge and round, and she was shaking harder than a Chihuahua in winter. She was clearly scared shitless, but she wasn’t lashing out, clawing or hissing like some cats do when frightened. No, instead of being easy to turn down, she had to be the kind of scared that made her bury her tiny head into my armpit and shake for dear life, frightened yet trusting at the same time.
Damn it.
“I don’t even know why I’m holding her right now,” I said as I gazed lovingly into the kitten’s eyes, speaking more to it than to the other volunteer. “I can’t take her home… my cats would have a shit fit…”
I heard the words leave my mouth, but I didn’t quite know where they were coming from, because at that point, my mind was already miles ahead, planning ridiculous plans the way it does when it thinks I’m meant to take action. I could see my cats at home being upset at first, but then welcoming this little gray wonder into our family with open paws. I could see the three of them curled up on the bed together. The fact that, when I had begun to volunteer at Forgotten Cats, Brad and I had decided firmly that we would not adopt another cat no matter what never really floated into my brain. I was already gone, and it was all the fault of this kitten’s buried, shaking little head.
Something in me, though—something the crazy cat lady part of my brain was doing a great job of suppressing at the moment—must have realized that it was a terrible idea for me to take the kitten, because when the other volunteer—bless her sweet sweet heart—said, “well, maybe I could foster her just for now,” relief flooded over me. “I have twelve cats that I’m fostering in cages in my basement right now,” she said. “I guess one more couldn’t do any harm.”
That statement was all that both the woman who’d brought the kitten and myself needed. We both thanked her profusely and tore out of the store before the other volunteer had time to change her mind.
Well, admittedly, as I handed the kitten over to her and the poor thing clung to my shirt with its miniscule claws and fought to keep its head buried, I did ask her (a few dozen times), “are you sure? Are you sure you can take her? You’re sure you can handle it, right?” Because, of course, that stupid, nonsensical part of me was hoping she’d say no and that I could go out to the car where Brad was waiting with a tiny new family member in my arms.
But the volunteer assured me that she was okay, and I, finally allowing the logical part of my brain to bitchslap some reason into the crazy cat lady region, followed in the woman’s tailwinds before I allowed myself the chance to look back.
As I reached the front of the store, I waved goodbye to Dan, one of the PetSmart employees. “You better get out of here,” he said, “before the crazy lady with the gray kitten finds you guys.”
I laughed. As if it could possibly have been that easy.
When I reached the car and climbed inside, Brad could tell that something was wrong. The only explanation I could offer was, “you’d better be happy that I didn’t just get into this car with a kitten in my arms.”
Brad, whose brain has a bigger logical region than most people, including myself, could ever hope to have, stared at me in that way that only a crazy person’s sane companion can do. He didn’t have to say anything for me to know what he was thinking:
“You see? This is what happens when I leave you alone with cats, isn’t it?”
