Every life should have nine cats.
~Author Unknown
The cat raised her head and stared at me through bleary eyes, releasing a soft, squeaky mew. She’d wedged her twenty striped pounds into a tiny kitty bed she shared with a small, orange kitten. She was bald from her withers to her tail where her fur had been shaved, and runny gook ran from her eyes and nose. I stroked her head gently as she squeaked again, the smallness of her voice a contrast to the enormity of her body.
The cat dropped her head back into the kitty bed, a soft raspy purr vibrating her white chest. I wasn’t in the market for another cat — I already had one, Percy, and a German Shepherd named Tess — but this cat tugged at my heartstrings like I hadn’t felt since my Blue-Point Himalayan, Mindi, passed away.
I knew better than to visit the shelter just to socialize with the cats. I can walk into one of those places, visit the dog kennels, and leave empty-handed. The cat room is a completely different story. Homeless, unloved cats bother me in a way no other animal does. I love all animals, and all unloved, abused animals hurt my heart, but there is something about a roomful of unwanted cats.
Maybe it’s because in Wyoming it’s easier to find homes for dogs. Few people want cats, and no one thinks cats are important enough to pay for the surgery of fixing them to prevent more litters. Cats are considered pests and vermin. They are used for pest control in barns, but otherwise they are overlooked. When I visit the cat room of the shelter, I know the kittens will find homes, and the friendlier adult cats probably will, too. They run to greet visitors who might be potential homes.
But a half-bald, twenty-pound cat with an upper respiratory infection has little hope.
I alerted a shelter employee to the cat’s illness.
“I think one of the cats is sick. She has a runny nose and gooky eyes.”
The shelter employee checked the cat and sighed, shaking her head sadly. “We’ll have to quarantine her.”
“Can you tell me about her?” I asked.
“Her name is Puckett. We named her after Wolfgang Puck, the chef, because she’s so fat. We found her under a bush, her fur completely matted. That’s why she’s been shaved. We thought she belonged to someone because she’s so big, but no one ever came to claim her.”
I didn’t think long about it. “I don’t know if I can adopt another cat, but can I foster her?” I asked. “She’s just so pitiful. I feel sorry for her.”
The shelter employee’s eyes lit up. “No one’s showed her any interest. Would you like to apply to be a foster home?”
I agreed immediately. I filled out the application, interviewed with the volunteer who works with foster homes, and took Puckett home a week later. I had to keep her quarantined because she was sick, and I didn’t want her to infect Percy. I kept her in my guest room with a litter box, food, and a water bowl, and I visited her every day. She ate and drank a little, but slept most of her days. Both Percy and Tess knew there was someone new in the guest room, and they both camped outside the room, sniffing and pawing under the door. Sometimes, I could hear Puckett mewing her high-pitched, squeaky meow behind the door, and Percy would respond, yowling in his deep voice. Tess snuffled underneath the door and kept vigil at night, waiting for the time she could meet the new guest.
After four days of isolation, Puckett finally had enough. When I opened the door one morning to feed her and give her fresh water, she pushed the door out of her way and marched out. Her eyes and nose were clear, and her coat was starting to grow back. She looked much healthier than she had when I first saw her at the animal shelter. She stopped to sniff noses with Percy, and satisfied that he was no threat, she stalked over to Tess and sniffed her as well. I held my breath, afraid she might have a problem with dogs. After several moments of sniffing from nose to tail, Puckett marched over to me and flopped on her side, purring and rubbing her head back and forth on the carpet, begging to be stroked.
Puckett, Percy, and Tess became fast friends. Any apprehension I had about adding a second cat to my household disappeared when I saw how easily Puckett fit in. She played with Percy, slept snuggled up to Tess, and shared my bed at night. Puckett and Tess developed a routine, a dance they performed every night, circling the kitchen side by side with Puckett directing the steps. When Tess reached one side of the kitchen, Puckett walked under her nose and turned her around to circle in the other direction. Then Tess would lie down on the floor, and Puckett would dance back and forth in front of her, running her tail under her nose.
Four weeks later, I had to leave town for a week. As Puckett wasn’t officially mine, I had to return her to the animal shelter. When I returned a week later, they told me Puckett had fallen ill again and was in quarantine. By then, I decided that the shelter atmosphere was toxic to Puckett. There were too many cats crowded together in a small room, competing for territory, dominance, and attention from the few people they see every day. Some cats stress harder than others, and I could see that Puckett struggled at the shelter. The foster volunteer asked if I wanted to take Puckett home again when she was cured, and I agreed.
When the foster volunteer called me two weeks later to tell me Puckett was recovering, I went to pick her up.
The volunteer didn’t even pretend to believe that I only planned to foster Puckett. “You’re just going to adopt her, aren’t you?”
“Yep,” I said.
“It’s Buy One Get One Free Month. Do you want this one, too?” She pointed to the cat I held in my arms. I’d picked her up and cuddled her while I waited for Puckett to get vaccinated.
“Sure,” I said.
Those shelter employees sure know a sucker when they see one.
An hour later, I went home with two cats I never knew I wanted.
I never expected my soul mate to show up in the form of a bald, snotty-nosed, twenty-pound package at the shelter, but there she was, and I’ve never regretted adopting her.
~Anita Weisheit
