It was a rainy afternoon in mid-March when I first saw her—just a little blackish shape huddled under a bush in my yard. I peered out the window, wondering if she were real or just a bit of foliage pushed down by the rain. “Is that a cat?” my husband asked. “It think it is,” I said. But, when I opened the door to investigate, the tiny form ran into the trees at the end of the yard. I called, thinking she might be one of my neighbors’ roaming cats, but she never came.
The next day, I set out cat food and water in bowl by the garage. I never saw her, but in the morning the food was gone. Of course, it could’ve been birds, I thought, or Ryder, my neighbor’s fat orange Tom, who reckons any food left standing out belongs to him by right. But, after a week of leaving out food and water, I began to see a pattern. The food was only eaten after 7:00 PM. And, sometimes, later, when I was walking my cocker spaniel Lady, I would see a tiny shape at the end of the yard with big, golden eyes. When Lady and I advanced, she ran into the tree line. Still, I could definitely see that she was a cat and a very small one at that.
Small cats do not fare well in our neighborhood. Several families let their dogs run at night. And, as close as we are to the woods, we often see foxes, raccoons, and even a coyote or two. And, then, there is Ryder. Ryder fights everything—small dogs, other cats, raccoons—and, even once, a badger that roamed into “Ryder’s territory.” The only thing that I’ve ever seen Ryder flee—except for garden hoses turned to “jet,” is our other neighbor’s monstrous rabbit, General Beauregard. Beauregard puts me in mind of General Wombwart in Watership Down. He’s fully as big as a terrier and he doesn’t take insults from anyone—including Ryder. I was sure that my tiny stray cat, who looked no bigger than half-grown, would be easy game for the fierce and implacable Ryder.
So, I continued leaving out food for another month. Some days, I saw the tiny black and orange calico cat come up under the floodlit yard and eat. Sometimes I didn’t see her for several days. I thought of cars, dogs, and Ryder. I worried. I put out a carrier with a cushion for her against the wall and out of rain, as well as permanent food dishes. I could tell the carrier was being used. It had a cat-sized niche in the blankets, but I suspected that Ryder might be using it as a mid-day retreat. Twice I caught Ryder eating the stray cat’s food. I shook my broom at him, but he only rolled and hissed at me, which is his usual behavior. Ryder is the sort of cat that hisses and purrs at the same time-— definite candidate for intensive psychological study.
Since the stray cat appeared, Ryder had taken to lurking in my yard in the morning and afternoon, just hoping to surprise the little stray, who I’d taken to calling Yuki. After another two weeks, she came when I called and shook the jug with her cat food inside, but she never let me nearer than about six feet. Sometimes, if I sat at the head of the deck stairs while she ate, she would walk to the foot of the stairs when she finished and stare up at me with her tiny eyes closed.
She wasn’t a feral cat. This was a cat that had known people. Most likely, she had been dropped. Unfortunately, a lot of people still abandon cats and kittens in the area where I live. My mother’s cat, Sugar, had been an abandoned pet, whose owner left her at the apartment complex when he moved out. She was on her own for about two weeks before I was able to catch her. This little cat may’ve been on her own for weeks or months. There was no way to tell. Still, she was wild enough, at this point, that she wouldn’t let me approach her. And, she was very clever. I had put out a feral cat trap, hoping to catch her and take her to the vet for testing before I moved her into my garage for recuperation. But, the only creatures I caught were a very fat opossum and, of course, Ryder. Ryder was not pleased at being held captive overnight, but his greed for cans of Fancy Feast led him into the trap two more times before I decided that Yuki wasn’t going to take the bait—even if it was clear that Ryder was going to every time.
So, I decided that patience was the best route. Every day, I fed Yuki in the morning and at night. She seemed to match my schedule, coming up just before I left for work in the morning and when I came home in the afternoon. I sat each day and watched her eat and each day I scooted a little bit closer. Most days when she finished eating she would watch me for awhile, her big green eyes glowing slightly in the dark. After about three weeks, she walked up and smelled my foot. After another week, she let me touch her back. Finally, I left the door open as I went inside the basement and she followed me inside. She sniffed a pile of laundry and promptly hid under the armoire. I slid some food and water underneath and made her a little towel bed. I was afraid she’d try to escape in the night, but she didn’t.
Eventually, I was able to coax Yuki into a large dog carrier. I took her to the vet for shots and testing and all was fine. She was wormed, doused with Frontline, and I was given medicine for ear mites. Yuki was still very skittish, and I wasn’t sure that she would let me put the drops in her ears, but I proved wrong. Once Yuki was inside the house (albeit locked several rooms away from my other marauding cats,) she became almost docile. She used the litter box immediately. Yuki had obviously been someone’s cat once. The vet estimated that she was no more than ten months old. She had been outside my house, on and off, for about three months. Poor little Yuki was on her own at only seven months, barely more than a kitten.
I know that people do still “drop” cats. From time to time, I feed stray cats in my neighborhood. Some have turned out to be lost pets, gratefully returned to their owners. Others were feral cats, wild and impervious to my attempts to tame them as any raccoon. But, Yuki was a cat that someone once fed and loved and called “kitty.” Within days of coming inside she was playing with toy mice—a far cry from the chipmunks she “played with” in my garden, clawing on a cat-scratcher, and lolling on a cat bed. This cat knew “house.” She didn’t have any of the fearful ways of the barn cats that I have tamed over the years—or their desperate need to go out. Yuki didn’t claw at the door and yowl. She’d hunker down when Lady approached her, but after observing Lady’s cat-loving ways, she calmed down a bit.
It is shocking that people still abandon kittens and puppies. There are several humane shelters, not to mention the non-humane Animal Control Centers, in my town. Perhaps people believe that a cat is better off on her own than being taken to the “pound” or maybe Yuki did escape from an apartment or house. But, no one ever came looking for her. There were no posters, no advertisements in the local paper, no one going door to door looking for a lost kitten.
I don’t think that I’m a naïve person. I’ve worked in an animal shelter for years and I’ve seen the lost and abused animals that end up in shelter care. My little Maine Coon, Tig, was left in a box of kittens overnight on a shelter’s doorstep. My vet has had kittens left in his mailbox and a puppy tied by a string to the front door of his clinic. But, just who are these people that leave puppies, kittens, dogs, and cats out in the world? And, what excuse is there for this behavior? There are plenty of places and people willing to care for animals. Several veterinary clinics in town offer spaying and neutering free or at severely reduced rates. Everyone says that the answer to unwanted pets is education, but education just doesn’t seem to be working. People just don’t seem to care.
For three months I fed Yuki in my backyard. Everyone in my neighborhood could see this poor, straggly little cat and yet no one could be bothered to help her. When I had to go out of town for a week one of my friends stopped by morning, noon, and night of each day to feed Yuki. The house next to me couldn’t be bothered and, in fact, I caught them trying to scare Yuki away from one of their precious bird feeders with a broom. Who would let a cat or a dog starve right under their noses?
Yuki is fine now. She’s happily eating cat treats and playing with toys, but she is just one of thousands of cats and dogs that have been left behind. People abandon pets when they move, when they get tired of them, or when they develop health or behavior problems. My vet has actually had people ask him to put a dog to sleep for urinating in the house. Does anyone really have that little compassion for another living creature—or that little patience?
I want to believe that there is a solution to this problem. I want to believe that in a country with so much tolerance for different points of view and different ways of life, there can be a place for animals too. But, when I see animals like Yuki, just thrown away because they were too much trouble for someone, I lose hope.
I want to think that the world is a good place and that there are people out there that really care. I know there are. There are people that take in lost pets, start shelters, donate their time and money to help animals and other people. But, maybe we all (me included) need to do a little bit more. For every fat cat on a pillow (Ryder comes instantly to mind,) there are plenty of cats and dogs living in alleys, in the woods, and on the streets. Right now, someone is leaving a puppy alone on a corner, thinking that someone will take care of him or that he can fend for himself. This kind of behavior just has to stop.
If you see an abandoned cat or dog, do something—even if that just means calling your local shelter and letting them know. If you see someone mistreating an animal, say something—even if that means just calling local Animal Control or the Humane Society. And, whatever you do, don’t give up hope. Just because it seems, sometimes, like no one cares, like everything you do to help animals doesn’t even make a dent in the problem—it doesn’t mean that that’s true. Every little bit helps. Every cat or dog (or horse or hamster) saved, is one animal saved. That’s one less little lost soul on the street. And, no matter what anyone says, that is something.
