A Dickens of a Cat

There she was one day, looking sad-eyed and mournful, peering in through the glass patio door. Her silky fur was jet black and her eyes were as big as saucers. As I gazed at her I spoke the thought that was running through my head, “My, you are in quite a pickle.”

This beautiful, regal cat was definitely pregnant. Her stomach was bulging, and she appeared ready to give birth any day. I gathered a blanket, a basket, and a bowl of milk, and I opened the patio door. I walked outside, and she backed up about ten feet, watching with wary eyes as I set down the bowl and arranged the blanket in the basket.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I said softly. “Here’s some milk and a fluffy blanket to lie on. You’re such a pretty kitty. Do you have a home? Does anyone take care of you?”

I went back inside the house, wondering where she had come from. I had seen a black cat in our neighborhood but assumed she was someone’s pet.

“That cat has been around for years,” a neighbor said a few days later. “She’s had at least fifteen litters of kittens.”

“Some of us have tried to catch her, but she’s smart and gets away every time.”

I had already asked myself why this homeless black beauty came to my door. She looked as sad as I felt. Losing my father after a long illness, my days and nights were no longer filled with phone calls and visits. I felt frustrated, alone, and weary. I couldn’t even muster up my faith. Everything looked bleak.

Remembering my dad’s caring ways was the only comfort I had right now. He loved animals and had a soft spot in his heart for every stray. When I was a little girl, our house was a revolving door for abandoned cats and dogs brought home by my dad after finding them in the restrooms of the gas station he owned. He would have wanted me to take care of this one.

So eventually as I sat drinking a cup of coffee one morning, I watched this beautiful cat through the glass door. “Okay, Dad, I’m going to keep her,” I spoke aloud. “She needs a home.”

What are you going to call her? I could almost hear him say. “I’m going to name her Pickles.”

She must have had a hard life surviving on her own all those years. I had a strong feeling it was time now to give her a break. Just like it was time for Dad to get a break. After all his years of struggling with his illness, it was his time for some peace. I knew that in my heart but had trouble with it in my head.

I decided that after Pickles’ babies were born, I’d get her spayed so she could live out the rest of her life in peace. It would be something I could focus on during the lonely days and weeks ahead. I didn’t realize it would be much harder than I thought to make my promise to Pickles come true.

Over the next few days, Pickles came to drink the milk and eat the food I put out for her, but would then disappear. One morning, I saw a tiny black kitten curled up in the blanket-lined basket outside the back door. Then I looked up.

There in the street was Pickles, running right in front of a car. The brakes squealed and the driver slowed, and fortunately Pickles survived a near miss.... I could see her carrying a solid gray kitten by the nape of its neck. Bouncing across the yard, she deposited it in the basket and took off again. She made three more trips for a total of five kittens.

Cautiously, I made my way around the side of the house to get a closer look at the new babies. I longed to hold Pickles and snuggle her close, but her years of living in the wild made her wary of human contact. Without knowing it, though, she was helping me to keep my mind off my own problems. I peered into the basket and watched as she licked and cleaned the kittens, wishing I could pet each one, but holding back until the time was right.

Over the next few weeks, Pickles proved to be an excellent mother. Even though she looked exhausted, she spent hours feeding, cleaning, and tending to her babies. As they grew, she watched them eat the food that was put out for them, never taking a bite herself until all of the kittens were through.

Over time, I felt my own weariness lifting. I sure didn’t feel alone when I came home to six pairs of hungry eyes watching me through the patio door. I even started to laugh again, and surprised myself with the sweet, familiar sound. It was such fun watching the kittens roll around on top of each other and play hide-and-seek under the edges of the blanket.

Whenever Pickles would let me, I’d sit down next to the basket and pet each kitten in turn. As I stroked each furry little ball, I soothingly crooned, “It’s okay, Pickles. I won’t hurt them. They’re so cute with big eyes like yours and soft fur. Look at this one with the black-and-white mask on her face. She looks like a little bandit. And this solid black one looks just like you.”

Grow Your Own

Plant your own catnip garden. You can buy catnip as a plant or as seeds; it’s usually called catmint in your garden or feed store and can be found in the herb section. Catnip is very hardy and needs no particular care, and once you get a patch started, you’ll have plenty. Catnip is in the mint family, and mint spreads like a weed, so don’t plant this in your flower garden. At harvesttime, pick and place in a big bucket to dry. When drying is done, stuff plants and their seeds into an old sock, and watch your cat get happy. And probably all the other cats in the neighborhood, too.

Pickles seemed to understand my contact with the kittens was necessary, and it sure did my heart good. Sometimes, though, the sad tears would flow as I thought of how much I missed my dad. Then Pickles would look at me with those big eyes that seemed to say, Everything’s going to be all right. You take care of me and I’ll take care of you. Did she know how much I needed her?

When the kittens were old enough, I found homes for four of the five. The antics of every kitten endeared me to each one, but the solid gray one stood out among the rest. He was soft and cuddly. When he stood up and stretched his paws against the door he looked just like a bear, so that’s what I called him.

It was time now to make good on my promise. I needed to take Pickles to be spayed before she became pregnant again. I thought it would be easy to put her in a cat carrier and take her to the vet. Boy, was I wrong.

The first attempt failed miserably. I placed a small bowl of food inside a plastic carrier and set it outside. Pickles stood back about thirty feet with her nose in the air and glared at the carrier. “Come on, sweetie, go in and eat a little bit,” I tried, coaxing her to step in. She wouldn’t even go near it.

For the second attempt, I ran a string from the carrier’s door into the house. Maybe if she didn’t see me, she’d go inside, I thought. My plan was to close the hinged door by pulling on the string. I used a little tuna on a plate for bait, and this time she went all the way in. I pulled the string, the door almost shut, and she went berserk, bolting through the carrier’s plastic door.

“Oh, Pickles, I’m not trying to hurt you,” I tried to reassure her in a soothing voice. “We both know you have to go to the vet. Please, just walk inside.”

With her enormous size and strength, I should have known a plastic carrier was not going to work. After running off about twenty feet, she turned around and looked back at me as if to say, “You tricked me. I don’t like being caged.”

Unsure of what to do next, I took my plea to a higher power. “God, I need your help,” I whispered. “I promised Pickles I’d help her find peace. Would you help me?”

Later that day I felt myself being guided to the phone. Once there, I called the vet’s office. After I explained my dilemma, they said they had a metal cage I could borrow, which had a trap door used most often to catch wild animals that needed medical care. It sounded like the perfect answer.

I carried the cage to the backyard and talked to Pickles, who sat in the corner watching me. “Look at this one, Pickles. It’s much bigger and you can see through it. When you go inside, the door will shut behind you, but don’t be afraid.”

At the vet’s suggestion, I placed a piece of chicken in the corner of the cage, with the metal door propped open on its spring-loaded hinge. All Pickles had to do was approach the bait. What happened next seemed like a miracle. With a slow, calm, steady gait, Pickles walked straight into the cage, almost as if a loving hand was guiding her. No backward glance, no hesitation, and no thrashing or trying to escape. Her weight pressed down on the spring and the door shut behind her.

I began to marvel at her acceptance and surrender. Is that what it takes? I wondered. Acceptance? Maybe that’s what’s lacking in my own life.

The vet operated that day, and when I picked Pickles up she was sporting a shaved stomach and dissolvable stitches. She was groggy from the anesthesia so I was advised to leave her in the cage overnight. The next morning Pickles awoke and peered at me with those big saucer eyes. I let her out of the cage at the side of the house; she took a few steps, then turned and looked at me. Our eyes locked and I saw my own newfound serenity reflected in hers.

A few months later I took Bear in to be neutered. Now mother and son live with me. Each morning and evening when I feed them, Bear rubs against my legs, and Pickles will sometimes allow me one small pat on the top of her head, befitting her aloof stature as queen of the yard.

The gentle, guiding hand that showed Pickles the way to peace also showed me the way to acceptance and contentment. I found out that when you help others, you forget all about your own troubles. With her son at her side, Pickles now has a life of leisure. They play in the bushes, chase each other up trees, and lie in the sun on warm days. I’m happy to say that Pickles is no longer homeless, and I am no longer lonely.