It was a year and a half ago when I left home to stay at ‘camp’, or so they called it. And camp out I did, in a cage, for seven months. Seven long months trusting it would be alright – and because I trusted, I waited, and I expected. I expected that the commitment that had been made to me would be honored. Yes, I had food and water, and yes, I had a roof over my head. It would be alright, they kept telling me. Someone would come back for me someday.
Well they didn’t. And just as well because obviously someone hadn’t explained to them about decency and responsibility. And so I lost that home, and spent seven months of caged life, and then came to the Rescue.
I can’t find my Dad …..
Here they know decency. And responsibility. Kindness and warm hearts and snuggles abound. And a commitment is made to each and every cat that enters the program – to do the very best by that cat that they can do. But these Rescue folks are up against tremendous odds. Because not only do they have to work to provide for the present and the future, but they work to overcome the past. These folks work to repair the damage done by countless other folks who don’t give a second thought to leaving us by a dumpster, closing us in the basement, kicking us down the stairs, or abandoning us in a kennel for seven months. The psychological damage can be overwhelming. The physical damage debilitating. The emotional scars long term.
Oh Dad, where are you…….
Some of us bounce back. Some of us, given the time and the patience, can conquer the demons – we can learn to trust again, to believe that we will have food and water, that we will be protected, that we are worthy of love. And with proper attention and care, some of us can also overcome the long term damage to our physical beings. And some of us can’t. Some of us will still bite, or swat, or pee inappropriately (mea culpa). Some of us will refuse to eat and some of us will eat until there’s no end in sight. And some of us, no matter what kind of intervention is taken, will lose the battle.
Dad?
The nice Rescue lady tells me there’s a new family for me, we just have to find them. While I look forward to that, I still wonder about Dad. I sure hope he’s okay, because I’ll miss him.
Day in and day out I trapse through the crowds of animals in our shelter, but it is one night, after midnight, when it hits me. The expressions on all those furry faces as they look at me, ever so expectantly, stop me in my tracks. There they sit, on the cat tree, inside the condo, behind the bag of food, inside the open carrier. Under the blanket peeking out; standing right in front of me. Umpteen eyes watching, waiting, and hoping. There are big eyes, small eyes, all sorts of colors, beaming their innermost thoughts at me. Sure, some of it is ‘did you bring treats’, but on a deeper level, I see hope, trust, belief in my ability. How can they have so much faith? How can their history tinged with reality translate into such a magnitude of confidence? Yet they have it. You can see it. And the pressure can be overwhelming. For we, as Rescuers, have made a commitment. We have promised each one of them that there is hope. We have worked to overcome their past and told them we could brighten their future. They accept our promises. They have faith in us, even as we struggle to recreate their story. Trusting us with their lives, they take it day by day, confident we will fix things. They have learned that the hands here are good ones, whether they bring breakfast or antibiotics. It matters not, for we have given them reason to believe. And we walk in that door, early in the morning, late at night, and there they are. Ready. Waiting. Wondering if the promise we made them is about to come true. Doesn’t matter that it’s nearly midnight, or that the sun hasn’t even risen yet. Maybe. Just maybe it will be their turn to walk into a carrier and go to a furever home. They wait patiently, relying on us to rebuild their future. I want to give them my heart. My soul. To lay down with each one of them in my arms. To show them what it will be like again one day. I want, more than anything, to bring their dreams to reality, tonight. Another day comes and goes. An extra scritch here, a soft word there. But it’s not the same as a home. It’s not what they dream about, what they hope for, what we promised. Not yet. We’ve done good, but we are far from finished. We will get there – because they believe in us, and we won’t let them down.
One can never say that life here is dull. Ever watched someone on a trapeze? Up and down with a pit in your stomach, then butterflies, nervous yet excited, followed by that whoosh whoosh, back down and then up you climb again. So goes our days.
There’s a bunch of us here. How many, people often ask. We lose count. Kind of like a revolving door most of the time, and you don’t bother to count. A few in, a few out. The home crew stays relatively steady, but the ones considered transient? So many new whiskers to twitch. Maw and Paw do well. The cats we remember, they say. The adopters? They all look the same. I can see their point. I was never big on looks anyway. Now smells, that’s a different story. Specific looks don’t do much for us felines. Shapes, however, is another thing all together. Take Toko Thai for example. He likes tall blondes. And Annie? She likes wide people. Me? I’ll take anyone who has cheese Danish.
Anyway, back to the Center. I’m never sure what to think about life at the Center. So many comings and goings. But compared with the previous digs, at least there is variety.
We have two living facilities here now – the House, commonly known as the Geezer Ward, and the Rescue Center itself. Just a stone’s throw from each other, the House has us permanent residents – those of us who fit the mold of unadoptable for whatever reason. Then the Rescue Center, hosting up to fifty furries at a time, all hoping for a new home. I live in the Geezer Ward.
In 1998, when Meowm opened the doors to nomad Meezers, they all stayed in the House. Meowm hadn’t quite grasped the concept of rescue and release, and the number of permanent residents increased within a short few weeks from two to six. Take Sapphire for example. She was VA0002. Her mom was moving to California and couldn’t take her with. She came and visited with Meowm who did what she tends to do – rambled on and on about her idea of a Rescue and all that was involved – without letting the poor lady get a word in edgewise. Hours later, the woman left, and Sapphire sprawled happily on the couch (she’s happy just about anywhere provided there’s a food bowl within reach). It was only after the fact that Meowm realized she had been so busy yabbering that she had neglected to inform this lady she was going to find Sapphire a new home. And no, she had not gotten the aldy’s address or forwarding number either (told you she was talking too much!) Feeling it was not right to rehome her without the lady’s okay, Sapphire, the lump, stayed.
Who was VA0001 you might ask? No, not me I’m afraid – I waited to make my appearance until Meowm and Paw had this Rescue thing down pat (yours truly is VA1000). Ming was the first. His family has gone through a divorce and left the trailer, and Ming, to their own devices. By the time he had been found, however, he had been so long without proper care that his borderline diabetes had gone off the charts. Meowm got two lessons for the price of one with him – Rescue wasn’t going to be cheap, and there weren’t always happy endings.
By the time we got to number 0003, she was getting the hang of it. JoJo, though a far cry for a Siamese, found a home not 45 minutes from here with a nice couple who weren’t allowed to leave until they promised to be on the Board of Directors that Meowm needed to create so she could meet IRS requirements.
Ahh, those early lessons. The next three arrivals taught us that not every cat with a home lives comfortably, and not every cat is social. Responding to a phone call from a man whose wife had been hospitalized, we went on a Meezer hunt in the wilds of the Virginia mountains. Windy roads led to what could be described as not much more than a goat path, flooded by recent storms – water cascading down the mountain sides. In sneakers and shorts, mini Bean (age 8), Grandma Muddles and Meowm were the picture of naivety as they were led to a sagging abandoned shed. It didn’t take a keen sense of smell to note that this would be a memorable experience. Forcing the door open, inches of cat feces blocking the way, the 6×8 room was a mass of flying fur – up the walls, across the ceiling, back down again. The room was completely empty except for some old French fry dishes with week old food. Waterbugs paddled happily in a bowl of pea green water. Were there Meezers? Yes, quite a few, but it was impossible to get a count – every movement brought wild panic to their eyes and they launched like rubber band torpedoes off every surface. If you could have seen Meowm standing there with her mouth agape, carrier helplessly in hand – it was quite a sight. Last time she went anywhere questionable in shorts, with her young daughter, elderly mother, without gloves or plan, let me tell you. I think humans call this behavior clueless.
