My third cat, the diva.

Dec 12, 2006

When I lived in the tiny, plaster-walled, low-voltage unit with my two cats, I was adopted.

I had originally rented the place because a) it was a place by myself, and something I could afford at the time; b) it allowed pets; and c) I was greeted by a very friendly black cat that enthusiastically rubbed its face — its whole body — against my hand. (Only later did I learn about pimp season. Ahem. At any rate…) Late one summer, nearly a year after I’d moved into this place, I saw that small black cat again. I said hello, scritched behind its ears, and went about my day. The next morning, I saw the cat again, hiding under my car. And the next morning, hiding at the back of the little parkway. And the next. And the next. It was now the middle of October, and I began to wonder if this cat had any humans. I worried about the cat being caught by some neighborhood kids and abused when Halloween rolled around. Over the next few evenings, I fed the cat little amounts of kibble, slowly coaxed the cat into my place, and checked around the neighborhood to see if anyone was missing a small, black, extremely friendly young female cat. Two nights before Halloween, I kept this new cat inside all night and let her out in the morning (after breakfast). This routine continued even after Halloween: up in the morning, feed the cats, shower, dress, let the new cat out, work, come home, call the new cat to come in (after about four days, she would go and sit on the front porch when she saw my car), feed the cats, relax/unwind/eat my dinner, sleep, and repeat. The first cold hard rain of December, I opened the front door and the new cat (whom I had not named yet) just looked at me like I was five kinds of silly-stupid. She was sitting, with Ursa, on top of the five-foot cat tower. She was fed. She was warm. She was dry. She was not going out into that cold wet ick.

Fog did go out the next morning, and was waiting to come in that evening. For the remaining year until I moved to Treehouse Central, Fog was an indoor-outdoor cat (though indoor only when it was rainy, thanks ever so.) The cats fought occasionally — most often Monkey and Fog — but while they weren’t all bosom buddies, no one ever required even the most minor of first aid.

No one I asked had lost a cat, or knew anyone who did. I thought that perhaps this cat had originally belonged with the people who had lived in the house behind my unit — people who had later moved away. Seven months after Fog joining the family, I took all three cats to the vet and asked them to check Fog to see if she had been spayed. They called me later and said that she did have a small scar from being spayed previously. (I worry. I wonder what happened to her former humans. I wonder if they know that she’s safe, and has a home where she’s loved.) When I moved to Treehouse Central, the cats were agog: their available space had instantly tripled. One day when I ran a load of clothing to the laundry room, I left the glass patio door open. It was an amazingly nice day…and Fog got the screen door open and led the other two out to sit in the sun. They all scrambled back in when I called Fog’s name and asked what she thought she was doing.

When I get out the digital camera, Ursa looks resigned. He’ll put up with my taking a photo or two before he expresses his displeasure by moving elsewhere. Monkey will either try to hide or demand to have her picture taken, too: it depends on how she sees the activity that day. Fog will pose for her portrait. She knows she’s beautiful, she loves grooming Ursa, and she loves pawing at the blinds to make me get up and open them to give her an unobstructed view, or a perch. Then she’ll trot off to some other place, sit down, close her eyes, and proceed to ignore the world at large. (Apparently, the objective is to train me properly rather than to secure sunny resting spot.)

Related entry: Ursa
Keywords: | Holidailies | cats |
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