Bad Behavior - Mel

Big sweet Mel is new to the shelter. He's a handsome red tabby, a medium hair freckle faced boy, shy but lovey once he's coaxed out from hiding.

He's enjoying my vigorous head to tail pets when we're interrupted by loud voices. A group of adults, all speaking loudly in a language I can't identify, something eastern European, maybe. Whatever they speak, it's not cat-attuned – they're way too boisterous for the comfort level at the shelter.

All at once, like some late 90s flash mob, two or three of them open condo doors and walk in to greet the cats. This is not supposed to happen. There's a sign in front, as well as a small eye level request on each condo door, saying you're not allowed to go in unless accompanied by a volunteer or staff member.

Admittedly, the signs are only in English, and some of them have been washed a little blurry. But these folks weren't even closing the doors behind them as they called back and forth across the hallway. Mel hid and I stood up, but a staffer darted in even faster and shooed people back out of the condos.

The cats didn't appear all that bothered. Venus had an almost eye rolling "what next" expression as she gazed down from the top of her perch.

Anyway, back to Mel. The photo doesn't do justice to how pretty and how darn red he is. He reminds me of Sam, my childhood piano teacher's cat. Think of that, a piano teacher's cat – hanging around the house while stranger children came and banged on a loud musical instrument. He was a pretty cool customer.

This was long ago and far away, in an era of questionable behavior. Think Dads driving mammoth cars with no seatbelts and open cans of beer, Moms smoking while they served bacon and eggs, kids not driven around like overscheduled CEOs but sent outside to play with vague instructions to be home by dinnertime.

The teacher had a little recital for students. Picture a bunch of geeky piano lesson kids who don't know each other sitting around afterwards eating cookies and Kool-aid. The teacher's ice breaking entertainment? She made little slippers out of paper and rubberbands and put them on Sam's feet. Sam bounced around the room frantic and comical while everybody laughed.

I don't condone the action, wouldn't recommend it, wouldn't laugh now. But when I see a vivid red cat, that decades old bad behavior still comes to mind.

Families - Venus

It's been a week of firsts, with my new guy at home. My first work day, his first full meal (handled fine), first disagreement – that it's not ok to wake me for a knead my hair and neck session at 4 am – and first visitor. These two, he didn't like, but has bounced back. Friday, bye to Tana and back to Maddy's for my regular shift, with a renewed sense of what a big deal pet adoption can be.

Although she's tan level, I visit Venus. She's came in with the same group as Montana, and I'm curious as to her behavior, and whether they're related. No DNA testing, but I'm going to say yes. She's got similar coloring and build, as well as similar personality traits. Initial shyness followed by head strong love, jumpiness from noise, the happy feet march. She's quite a drooler too (he's not, I'm just as glad to note) and I bet she does the cold-nose-on-the-neck-in-the-night thing too.

Nature vs. nurture? Would they have developed the same shy ways if living apart, just as they're destined to be short legged and plump? Perhaps like adult siblings now living different lives, they'll only be recognizable as genetically linked by their appearance.

A young straight couple who have been touring the hallway ask to come meet her. Venus crouches, nervous, looking away and no longer purring. The woman approaches gently, her voice and manner soft. Venus allows her some petting as she explains they have a very shy cat at home and hope to bring her a sister. She thinks life could be better at home for both her and the cat this way. I tell her about how Venus has lived with other cats and that two shy girls could pair up well. She further adds that there's also a one year old baby in the house, who's fond of the shy cat and likes to talk baby talk to her while she's hiding under furniture. (Maybe the cat's always been shy, but maybe it's just going to take a few years till the child has outside interests. I don't want to bum her out by saying so.) Oh and also, the guy -- who's been standing back silent and not interacting with Venus -- has some allergy issues. She invites him to pet her, which he does half heartedly, while she and I observe how soft and cute the big cat is.

The woman says she thinks Venus might be too nervous for their family, and they should look around some more. The guy nods silently and follows her into the hallway. I'm thinking, it'll take more than a feline sister to fix this household.

Other Side of the Counter

http://www.catster.com/cats/717069

Just a bit more on the whole adoption thing. Despite my volunteer creds, I still went through the whole process at Maddie’s to adopt my guy Montana: the two page form, the proof of cat residency, many helpful handouts, detailed discussion about making the adjustment for both me and the cat.

Because he’d been an “affection eater” (meaning stress at the shelter made him lose his appetite and he had to be coaxed to eat), they brought out a bag of his special food. I brought my sturdy carrier in from the car, not quite trusting a 17 pounder in a small cardboard box.

Putting him into the carrier was a breeze (and a startling contrast to my departed Muppy, a mere 6 pounds of energetic fight and flight). He cried all the way home, loud enough that people were looking in from the sidewalk as we passed Tartine on Guerrero.

I had his safe area ready, his litterbox, food and water, the small enclosed shelf where Mup spent her first couple days hidden when we moved in 5 years back. And the Sunday paper along with voluminous cat tips to read during the long wait.

Well, Montana-boy ventured out to check things out after maybe two minutes. He was a bit nervous, yes, but pumped. This was no one room squalor with a pack of cats, but a pretty sunny place with a soft carpet and windows overlooking the street. Oh, and me.

He’s a lover boy. A head butter, a full body rubber, so enthusiastic to rub on things he knocked stuff over. First week, he follows me when I’m home, sits on me if there’s a lap or near me if I’m cross-legged. Thinks my yoga moves are great fun, re-imagining positions like downward head butt, warrior leg twist. Flops on the floor underfoot in the kitchen. Cuddles by my head on the bed, purring and kneading and burrowing his head into my neck. (That last is cute but I’m hoping he chills at little; it’s hard to sleep with a wet nose on your neck and flexing claws by your ears.)

He likes to play, as long as he can do so mostly while lying on his side, and he uses the scratching post. Afterwards, he stays prone, rolling over on his back, stubby legs flailing, looking up at me with adorable blinks. He’s getting used to the noises of the house, the dog barking downstairs, kids outside. But has been pretty much unfazed. The naughtiest thing he's done is wake me up for some head and neck lovin' every night. And he’s tried to do is sneak out the door when I leave. Every time.

The food thing? As I suspected, no problem. Or as Tana would tell you, the only problem is there isn’t enough of it.

Welcome home! Montana

I regularly talk to potential adopters who have recently lost a beloved feline friend. I listen sympathetically to the stories, each unique and poignant. And I counsel to let some time pass, to give room to grieve. The need to find a substitute companion is strong and understandable, but I think that sad gap is important and in the end healthier for the people involved.

I usually ask about what type of cat they have in mind. Unless they are very specific, I’ll suggest meeting some kitties a bit different from the one they lost. The cherished departed cat cannot ever be replaced; one instead must make room in one’s heart for someone else to love.

So I’ve had the opportunity to take my own advice. My Muppy succumbed to her final illness mid December. It’s been a miserable cold hard winter since. Missing her was like something I carried around on my back, painful and weighing me down. And gradually having stretches of time where I didn’t think about her, about my loss, have just made me feel weird and guilty.

Almost two months. Almost time.

Muppy was a pretty, delicate calico, devoted to me but angry at the world, loud and demanding, and funny and sweet. And I thought maybe I’d find the magic with another little girl, one who was a little more social and outgoing. I’ve kept an eye out at Maddy's as I made the rounds.

Then there was Montana (aka Costello). Seventeen pounds, black and white, a blustery klutzy lovey boy. I wasn't sure if I was ready, if he was right for me, but found myself telling people about him, locating the empty litter box and food dishes, putting the carrier in my car just in case. I had the raw gut feeling that might come before giving a speech or a big date, combined with a jittery hormonally charged sense that I should act-now-act-now what if he's gone...

Sunday, brought the boyfriend to the shelter to get his take. And it was a love fest. It felt right. Sunday, Montana came home.

Cutest Thing - Costello

The boyfriend is patient with me because pretty much every shelter day I tell him something on the lines of “I saw the cutest thing.” He listens, he doesn’t deny it, although I acknowledge that it’s not possible to see the absolute cutest thing every visit. And he’ll admit he sometimes watches basketball while I’m talking about the kitties.

My paid work schedule (yes, I have a job) interrupts my regular shelter day, so I go in on Wednesday instead of Friday. Fewer cat shoppers around, but still a half dozen roam the corridors. Different volunteers, but guess what, same general topic of conversation, about the cats. Ok, and a few words about Super Tuesday, how SF was the most pro-Obama in the state, how as crappy as things are today (you know, economy, war, health care crisis looming) some of us still fear a Republican victory.

Comfort with the cats. They’re focused on meals, company, strange noises in the hallway, the occasional sight of their neighbors. Happy to lounge in a lap purring, bat a toy, snack on some kibble.

Costello has a notation about recovering from an upper respiratory infection, so no one’s been to see him yet. He’s initially very shy and tries to stay hidden in his climbing structure. But he’s also quite large, so his tail and hind legs droop on one side, front paws on the other.

For a few minutes I just sit quietly, trying not to think about trillion dollar deficits, waiting for Costello to get brave. Once he ventures out, I can see he’s a big sweet guy, black and white, solidly built.

He turns out to be quite affectionate. So full of enthusiastic love he’s not quite sure how to express it. He’s a head butter. Here’s what he does, as I sit next to him on the floor – rams his big forehead into my shoulder and then marches in place, purring like a jet engine. You should see it, it’s the cutest thing.

Power Spot - William

More volunteers than customers today. Plus a pleasantly surprising lack of cats at the shelter; all the available adoptees are housed in the ground floor condos. That means extra cuddle time for our feline friends.

I visit a whole series of tabbies. I have a special affection for brown tabbies, no doubt ingrained from my childhood cat Mystery, a strapping cheerful tabby.

William is of similar girth, but much more shy. He has a big sweet face, and his expressions show his emotions vividly (kind of a Jodie Foster of cats). He purrs loudly. He likes people, he’s affectionate and arches his back for petting.

But he’s awfully scared too. Though they’ve squeezed a pillow into it in a vain attempt to keep him from hiding, it’s clear William’s safe spot is tucked fully into the bottom of his climbing structure. He ventures out, purring loudly and rubbing his big face against my shoulder and cheek. But any noise or sudden movement sends him scuttling back.

After awhile, though, he stays out. He gets braver. He really wants his petting. Maybe a bit of food too. His resolve is tested when another volunteer walks by. He looks up anxiously, and then back at his hiding hole. But he stands firm.

I tell him he’s a good boy over and over, in that goofy voice that people without pets or children find so bizarre. He hops back up, kind of draping himself over the safe area. It’s accessible but so is his back for my hand. William’s found his power spot.