If you’ve been keeping up with my column – and if you haven’t, now would be a good time to start – you’ll recall that I’ve lost three beloved cats in the last four years. Given that I throw myself into every critter relationship I have, it’s been a harrowing time of heartbreak and despair. Indeed, the gaping wound in my heart has done nothing but increase in size, and believe me when I tell you that I could literally, physically, feel my heart ache. Something had to be done.
So I went on a shelter website and looked at the pictures of all the adult cats currently in residence. Over the course of a week, I revisited the site several times, trying to decide two things: 1) which cat I’d like to meet, and 2) how I was going to approach the idea of adopting another cat to the hubs. This was no small consideration, due mainly to the mantra he kept muttering over the past couple of years, that, “I’ll be glad when there are no more animals!” As I’m sure you’ve already figured out, there will never be a time without animals at Critter Cottage. How the hubs didn’t know that is beyond me.
In any case, I finally went to the shelter, having chosen a 4 year old ginger tabby to meet. It wasn’t until they pulled him from the cage that I noticed that he was missing a back leg. When I made inquiries, I was told that he had been shot, the femur had been broken, and the decision was taken to amputate the leg. Since Gracie Ellen Tripod – one of the three I had lost – had been a 3-legger, I didn’t see the ginger cat’s situation as an impediment to adoption. The volunteer handed me the cat, named Peacemaker by someone on staff, and I sat down in a chair, cradling him in my arms for a cuddle. What happened next was completely unexpected. Peacemaker stretched out and became a wet noodle. He was completely relaxed, a thing most shelter animals are not. He began to purr, put his paws out to make a few biscuits, and repeatedly slimed my nose with his lips. Obviously, he was the chosen one. Now, how to break the news to the hubs.
Later that day, I mentioned casually that I wanted to get another cat. The hubs immediately went ballistic, said no so many times I lost count, then accused me of going through the whole selection process without telling him, which was, in fact, entirely true. After a spirited (read: pissed off) debate, he looked at me accusingly and said, “You already picked one out, didn’t you?!”
“Yes,” I answered simply. The answer made him go off on another tear while I waited for the part where he would give in and say, “Do what you want. You’re going to anyway!” When he finally did, I tried very hard not to gloat, or even mention animals at all. Sooner or later, he would come around. It actually happened much sooner than expected: a few hours later, he asked about the cat I’d chosen. “He’s four years old, very mellow, and very friendly,” I told him. He made no reply.
I brought Peacemaker home the next day, having already decided that Peacemaker was a dumb name. I didn’t know whether he understood that that was his new name or not, so I settled on something that sounded like Peacemaker, but less ridiculous: Peasy. The hubs took one look at the cat and the space where his leg had been, and asked what had happened to him. He’d been shot, I told him, and a good Samaritan had brought him to the shelter. The hubs was surprised to find that Peasy got around much better than he thought the cat would. The hubs has been known to underestimate critters and his wife, from time to time!
Peasy lost no time settling in. He picked out a spot on the sofa for his everyday naps, then joined us for part of the night on the bed, a thing we all enjoyed.
It’s important to understand that Peasy was meant to be my cat. After the ruckus the hubs had made about getting him, I didn’t think that my bonding with Peasy would be any sort of problem. Unfortunately, though, Peasy seemed to take a liking to the hubs – my guess is he’d had a positive relationship with a man in his previous situation – and had taken to following him around the house. My nose was only 15% out of joint about this unexpected turn of events. Possibly 20%. Certainly no more than 25%.
Since I’m the only one making the conscious effort to bond with him, though, Peasy now comes to me when he wants attention. He walks into the home office, sits down, and makes a gentle meow. I pick him up, cradle him in my arms, and sit back down in my office chair in such a position that he can easily loll his head on my arm and do a bit of bird-watching out the window. We remain in that position until he gets tired of it and jumps down.
I hadn’t really thought much about the act of intentionally bonding with my pets. Usually, it either happened naturally in its own good time, or it didn’t, and I would respect that animal’s desire to be the way they were without trying to change them. But Peasy is different. Peasy’s previous existence is unknown to me. How he had been treated in the past is a complete mystery, but for one thing: he’s hand-shy. Whenever I reach over his head to pet him, he winces, as though expecting something bad. He never tries to run away, or defend himself; he merely winces. I made note of it, and determined to be extra gentle as he settles in.
He’s been with us about a fortnight, now. He’s located several spots around the house for his naps, the most notable being on top of the giant plush horse that’s waiting to be raffled off at The Harmony Barn’s fall fund-raiser. He’s wary of ancient cat Buddy – deaf old Buddy who can’t hear any of the hisses that Peasy throws his way. I’ve made it a point to pet Buddy whilst Peasy is watching, because I want him to know that both cats are to be treated kindly. He seems to be getting the message.
I read somewhere that a dog that’s been adopted takes upward of three months to feel completely settled in his new environment. I’m operating on the same principle with Peasy. I’ve been showering him with love and kisses, trying to help smooth the way. So far, he’s doing pretty well.