A feral cat is living in my guest bathroom.
Her name is Peggy Sue, and she is the matriarch of the
Oak Gove kitties, daughter of my Roxie and the baby factory of a seemingly endless production line of kittens.
I finally decided to shut down kitten production, hence the current situation.
I am an old hand at the care, feeding and and TNR (Trap, Neuter, Release) of feral and semi-feral feline colonies.
If you had asked me last week, I would have characterized Peggy Sue, a member of the colony I have cared for two years now, as a shy, but mostly tame, occasionally affectionate, kitty who tolerated the odd stroke or pat on the head. She even recognized her name and mewed in response when I called her "my little girl."
So generally agreeable seemed she that when the time came, I put aside the scary wire contraption I use to trap only the most feral critters in favor of a open can of tuna tucked temptingly inside a common cat carrier with the door left ajar.
I figured after a week or so of reprogramming and TLC in my guest bathroom she, like so many cats before her including her mom, would be ripe not only for "the procedure" but also for relocation and adoption into a new life. I'm a sucker for happy endings.
Clearly, Peggy Sue doesn't believe in happy endings. She is not adjusting as well as I had hoped to her new life in my bathroom.
Considering she is semi-feral, Peggy Sue is not a bad cat at all. She’s quiet, unfailingly uses the litter box provided, eats whatever I give her without complaint and accepts the treats I leave as peace offerings.
But our formerly cordial relationship is in shreds -- as would be my hand, I'm sure, if I was brave enough to stick it uncovered into the cabinet where she has holed herself up. It seems some trust issues have been breeched.
For help, I turned to the
Best Friends Animal Society's socialization manual – the one they use to resocialize the cats pulled from cat-hoarder rescues. But Peggy Sue and I can’t seem to get past step 1 .
We have arrived at an impasse.
With her continued baleful stares, flattened ears and hisses, my hopes for an immiment peaceful détente between us are fading.
If she doesn't break by next week, I’m going to have to suit up and drag her off to the spay and neuter clinic, then release her back into the world from whence she came, hoping she will still bond with her colony members and allow me to continue to care for her.
Most of all, I hope she will survive the cold winter, the dogs, the cars, the unfriendly humans, the predators and other hazards that make the lives of feral cats such short ones.
This is the suck-y side of being a cat lover and caregiver. As rewarding as what I do is, I have to accept that while I do my best, there is a fair amount of attrition in any feral colony. Every time someone doesn’t show up for dinner several nights in a row – as Tux has not for weeks now -- my cat mama’s heart breaks just a little.
The fact is while you can love these cats and do your best to make their lives better, you can save some, but you can't always save them all. Peggy Sue’s dilemma is hardly unique. But I want so much more for my “little girl” and her remaining offspring. If not a home, at least a safe environment where they can live out their lives.
And so now you know why I feel blue about Peggy, ‘bout Peggy Sue.
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