I’ve rarely met a cat, especially a black cat, that I didn’t like.
But I don’t really like this one.
He’s mean. Really mean.
He chased off my two sweet boys, Fergus and Tux.
He beats up on his woman, Peggy Sue’s beautiful girl Funny Face, she of the sapphire eyes and Himalayan coat.
He’s the baby daddy to her two half-grown kittens, Gizmo and Leona, and probably also fathered the litter she gave birth to some three weeks ago.
He abuses his kids, too.
Gizmo and Leona hide in the tall grass when he’s around and walk between my ankles for protection from him when I come to feed them.
I usually just refer to him as "The Baby Daddy," but lately, I’ve started calling him “Sid.”
But I don’t really like this one.
He’s mean. Really mean.
He chased off my two sweet boys, Fergus and Tux.
He beats up on his woman, Peggy Sue’s beautiful girl Funny Face, she of the sapphire eyes and Himalayan coat.
He’s the baby daddy to her two half-grown kittens, Gizmo and Leona, and probably also fathered the litter she gave birth to some three weeks ago.
He abuses his kids, too.
Gizmo and Leona hide in the tall grass when he’s around and walk between my ankles for protection from him when I come to feed them.
I usually just refer to him as "The Baby Daddy," but lately, I’ve started calling him “Sid.”
When Sid first started hanging out at the colony, he was wearing a flea color, so he must have belonged to someone sometime. He’s since lost the collar and apparently his home, too.
Maybe he was abandoned by someone in the trailer park down the street from the colony.
I suspect Sid’s home, when he had one, was not happy. The wary way he circles me, his plaintive cries, hisses and growls, the obsessively jealous way he guards his food tell a story of starvation and abuse.
I used to chase him off, but he refused to go. So now I feed him, speak to him softly, and, when he is receptive, scratch his ears. Even bad cats need love.
Occasionally, he purrs. He sounds rusty, like the engine turning over in an infrequently driven car.
Maybe if he wasn’t fueled by so much baggage and testosterone, he wouldn’t be so doggone cranky.
I know how to fix the testosterone. If I can manage to trap him, a trip to the spay and neuter clinic will get rid of all that in about three months.
Getting rid of the rest of his baggage may take a little longer.
And I don't have longer. I have just found out that my darlings are in trouble. Big trouble.
The neighborhood association where my little family resides has some issues and wants to get rid of them. Apparently, the fact that there are crack houses and growing drug problems in this neighborhood is no big deal to "the association". But they are very concerned about getting rid of a few cats who are cared for and sleep all day
To most of you this may not seem like a big deal. It is to me. Huge.
My heart is breaking, my stomach is churning, my blood pressure is up so high, it's like tribal drums beating in my ears. I just got a new mattress set. But something tells me I'm not going to sleep tonight. Or any night until I can resolve this.
You see. I've cared for this colony, and its evolving membership, for going on four years now. That's longer than many significant relationships in my life.
I've helped trap, foster and find "forever" homes for eight of its kittens. I've spayed/neutered three adult members and adopted two of them myself. One sleeps in my bed; one in my garage.
I've fed them by flashlight in the dark. Through cold winters and hot summers, I've slipped flea medicine on their necks when they scratch and antibiotics into their food when they are injured.
I've run interference with the neighbors and supplied informative literature about feral cats along with bungee cords and Nature's Miracle to deal with the more common complaints.
I've smiled into faces I've wanted to slap. Listened patiently and with as much sympathy as I can muster to some pretty outrageous (and I'm pretty sure some bogus whining). I've resisted the urge to point out that the "cats" they describe getting into their trash sound more like raccoons and that trash bags placed on the curb without benefit of first being placed in a can with a secure lid are an open invitation to raccoons, dogs, possums, foxes and other wildlife, not just cats.
I don't see myself just walking away at this point as some of my "friends" have suggested I do (for shame!) My babies, even Sid, need me now more than ever. No one else is stepping up to the plate.
I'll make a last ditch attempt to educate the ignorant, trap/spay/neuter/relocate the innocent and get assistance from the uncommitted . But I feel I'm going it totally alone.
And that scares the hell out of me. For me. And especially for the kitties.
Maybe he was abandoned by someone in the trailer park down the street from the colony.
I suspect Sid’s home, when he had one, was not happy. The wary way he circles me, his plaintive cries, hisses and growls, the obsessively jealous way he guards his food tell a story of starvation and abuse.
I used to chase him off, but he refused to go. So now I feed him, speak to him softly, and, when he is receptive, scratch his ears. Even bad cats need love.
Occasionally, he purrs. He sounds rusty, like the engine turning over in an infrequently driven car.
Maybe if he wasn’t fueled by so much baggage and testosterone, he wouldn’t be so doggone cranky.
I know how to fix the testosterone. If I can manage to trap him, a trip to the spay and neuter clinic will get rid of all that in about three months.
Getting rid of the rest of his baggage may take a little longer.
And I don't have longer. I have just found out that my darlings are in trouble. Big trouble.
The neighborhood association where my little family resides has some issues and wants to get rid of them. Apparently, the fact that there are crack houses and growing drug problems in this neighborhood is no big deal to "the association". But they are very concerned about getting rid of a few cats who are cared for and sleep all day
To most of you this may not seem like a big deal. It is to me. Huge.
My heart is breaking, my stomach is churning, my blood pressure is up so high, it's like tribal drums beating in my ears. I just got a new mattress set. But something tells me I'm not going to sleep tonight. Or any night until I can resolve this.
You see. I've cared for this colony, and its evolving membership, for going on four years now. That's longer than many significant relationships in my life.
I've helped trap, foster and find "forever" homes for eight of its kittens. I've spayed/neutered three adult members and adopted two of them myself. One sleeps in my bed; one in my garage.
I've fed them by flashlight in the dark. Through cold winters and hot summers, I've slipped flea medicine on their necks when they scratch and antibiotics into their food when they are injured.
I've run interference with the neighbors and supplied informative literature about feral cats along with bungee cords and Nature's Miracle to deal with the more common complaints.
I've smiled into faces I've wanted to slap. Listened patiently and with as much sympathy as I can muster to some pretty outrageous (and I'm pretty sure some bogus whining). I've resisted the urge to point out that the "cats" they describe getting into their trash sound more like raccoons and that trash bags placed on the curb without benefit of first being placed in a can with a secure lid are an open invitation to raccoons, dogs, possums, foxes and other wildlife, not just cats.
I don't see myself just walking away at this point as some of my "friends" have suggested I do (for shame!) My babies, even Sid, need me now more than ever. No one else is stepping up to the plate.
I'll make a last ditch attempt to educate the ignorant, trap/spay/neuter/relocate the innocent and get assistance from the uncommitted . But I feel I'm going it totally alone.
And that scares the hell out of me. For me. And especially for the kitties.
Most of all this makes me mad as hell.
They're God's creatures. Don't they deserve better?
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