Cat Songs - Abby

There are not too many people or cats around at the start of my shift, and I enjoy the relative quiet. A couple condo visits later, I’m playing with Abby, a lovely, energetic, and long legged tabby. She’s quite chatty as well as playful, with a high pitched, inquiring sort of tone and lots to say.

Kitty voices run the range. My boy Tana was completely silent when I met him here, so I was surprised that he’s turned out to be fairly vocal. If you just heard his voice, you’d picture a somewhat crotchety older gal, not a big friendly/goofy boy, I think.

One of the staffers hurries in and asks me to box Tyler, who’s going home. He’s a tan level and I wasn’t involved in showing him, nor have we met. But I fetch the adopter’s carrying case (he’s brought his own, clearly an experienced cat person) and ease into Tyler’s condo.

At first I think the staffer was confused and someone else picked him up, because there’s no cat visible. But I call around and make some chirpy noises, and sure enough comes an answering cry. There’s a little metal bed with a cushion on it maybe three inches off the ground and Tyler has flattened himself beneath it. This is before I’ve even let on that I’m here to, as they say, box him!

The official volunteer guide glosses over this task nicely. Scruff the cat and place him in the box, securing it firmly. Um hmm.

I crawl around, talking softly, cooing and urging him to come out from hiding. No go; instead I have to lift up the bed and gather him up. Poor guy, he’s struggling and purring both, almost shivering in his anxiety. He’s a sweet faced tan long hair, clearly a sweet cat but having a hard day. Does not want to go either head first or feet first into the carrier, and finally I have to tip it on its rear and push Tyler’s hindquarters in with gravity on my side, shoving his head down when he tries to climb back out.

The click of the carrier door sets him to crying, a loud pathetic set of yowls particular to a confined cat. I carry him out to his new person feeling like I’ve damaged him, as other people stare towards us, towards the noisy cries.

The man waiting, a nice looking older guy, kind of Wallace Stegnerish, smiles reassuringly, and thanks me. "They all complain like this, don’t they," he says, offering some kind words to his new kitty.

I wish them both well, and see them out the door, glad for the successful adoption. Give Tyler a half hour or so, I tell myself. He’ll make it home, he’ll quiet down, he’ll start to realize his bad day is actually a really good one.

Another Happy Ending - Allie

I met Allie (aka Annie) at Maddie’s more than a year ago. She’s lovely and sweet, and about the softest cat I’ve ever petted. Beyond the exterior, there was something intangible about her – I just thought she was a special girl.

She stayed at the shelter for about a month, which surprised me. Sorry, but it’s true – the cute kitties tend to go fast. She didn’t show well (meaning when I brought a potential adopter in to meet her she was initially unfriendly and maybe seemed standoffish). But that only lasted for a few minutes. Once she adjusted to someone new, she would slink out and sit close by, and offer nervous little hand licks.

The boyfriend had been making noises about getting a second cat. I’d mentioned this one as well as numerous others. This was a year ago December, and he went east over the holidays to visit family. I remember sitting in her condo, stroking and whispering while as she nervously licked my arm, promising to little Annie that she would find a good home.

Come January, it happened. He spent a good chunk of a couple afternoons at the shelter, and met a bunch of kitties. (He’s less impulsive than a lot of people and took his time deciding. I tried not to push, though I worried that someone else would see how special she was and take her home while he deliberated.)

But then he made his move. Brought the soft ginger girl home to his sunny airy home and big sister Emmy. We followed the guidelines about keeping the new cat confined and the two of them separated. It was an adjustment for them both.

Now I can’t imagine the house without Miss Allie. Soft and little and pretty as she is, she disdains the cooing and baby talk her preciousness invites. I’m pretty sure she views herself as a hardened alley cat, just taking the occasional nap break. She and Emmy run around the house together, sometimes like friends and sometimes like foes, but attuned to each other as well as to their man’s comings and goings. They devise attention getting scuffles to urge us to feed them, then sit side by side at their kibble bowls, gobbling happily.

Allie’s in the prime of her life now, comfortable and content. It was a good move for everybody.

London Calling - Turtle

I’m in for another pet and purr session with Lisa, when a young couple enter the hallway. They’re quite noticeable, as the guy is done up in full punk mode – a carefully spiked mohawk, safety pins in his ears, tats showing under raggedy clothes, and toting a skateboard adorned with anti-imperialist stickers.

My first thought is "bridge and tunnel" because he reminds me of people I’d sometimes see in the Haight or the Castro, newly arrived and vividly proclaiming their punkness or gayness or love of the Dead, not yet used to the San Francisco norm that you can be who you are and it’s ok, it doesn’t have to be in peoples’ faces. But I’m a decade or so out of date, I realize; this fellow wouldn’t have even been born before the mid-80s, rather he’s studied history and gone retro.

He’s not quite London 1977 though – instead of a cockney accent, his voice is soft spoken Bay Area, and he’s polite and articulate. The girl is nondescript, pretty, cuddly and giggly, and I’m afraid she’s not so much retro as normal, that we’ve swung so far away from the real 70s that it’s back to being ok for a woman to lean on her man and let him do most of the talking.

Anyway, they ask to see Turtle, a darling little tan level gray tabby. She’s recovering from surgery, her card notes, and learning to get around on three legs. I don’t know why her hind leg is gone, but she is indeed recovering, and hops around without seeming very bothered. Sitting, it’s hard to tell anything’s wrong. She’s also got on a ruffled Queen Elizabeth style collar to keep her from getting at the sutures, and shaved areas on her other leg and tail.

Despite all that and the entrance of three strangers, little Turtle is fine. Hops between us, rubbing and purring, before tipping over onto her back for belly rubs. She’s adorable. The guy describes their household – there are roommates and another cat whom he thinks would like a companion. He wants a cat who’s "chill," and I concur. It doesn’t sound like a household for a skittish sort. Turtle may be down a life or two on her nine, but she is as chill as they come at the shelter.

We sit with her a little longer, sharing cat stories. They decide to look around some more. They’ve presumably got plenty of spare time, both here on a Friday afternoon and him having devoted awhile on his appearance before they hit the road. But I urge them to think it over carefully – adopting any cat, particularly a year old three legged one is a pretty big commitment.

Old Girls - Lisa

Maddie’s has a system of leaving out condo cards for the recently adopted cats, and I always check them first thing. Several adoptions took place this past week, including Chloe, the regal 12 year old, I’m pleased to see.

Not long later, an even older girl catches my eye. Lisa is new to hallway 4. She’s a tan level calico who’s 17. There’s no glossing over it, that’s old! I’m guessing she may have arrived via the Sido program http://www.sfspca.org/special_programs/sido.shtml, which allows people to sign up their pets for care at the shelter in case they predecease them.

I’m compelled to pay her a visit – I still miss my Muppy, who died at 16 & a half in December, so an elderly calico draws me in. Lisa’s card says she’s sweet and optimistically adds that she likes to play with interactive toys. Well, she’s definitely friendly and loving, but we spend the whole visit with me standing there petting her as she lounges, purring loudly and rubbing her head around.

I’ve gotten kind of used to the solid young head bonker boy at home. But stroking the length of Lisa’s thin brittle spine brings back visceral memories. An old cat has a certain look to the fur and eyes, and a feeling of loose skin and prominent bones. Closing my eyes, I lose myself in memories again, recalling with my hands the shape and texture of poor Muppy’s physique.

Lisa’s not as pretty as Muppy was (sorry, but it’s true; she’s much nicer to strangers though!); her markings more splotchy and the reddish parts of her fur more tan. But she’s a good girl. A good old girl.

I have this theory that we are most in tune with our pets around the time when our relative ages overlap. So my childhood cat Mystery, for instance, was a half grown kitten around the time I was 10, and we were pals. I got Muppy as a year old cat when I was 30, so we crossed as 30 somethings, adults between young and middle aged.

Sweet Lisa has already outlived most of the people she’ll meet here on out. She must feel surrounded by ignorant youth. Good thing she’s patient and loving.

Family Fun - Tiger

It’s Spring Break, which means lots of kids hanging out at the shelter. There is an SFSPCA sponsored mini camp going on, with children in tan aprons visiting the mellower cats. (The program seems to be assisted by "camp counselors" who are kids, too, but I guess they’re older than they look, teenagers probably.)

A fair number of young guests are visiting as well. I’m in with Tiger, a lovely and playful orange tabby boy, when two kids skitter into the hallway. They seem barely attended by a man who is talking loudly into his phone ("We’re at the shelter! We’re looking at the cats!" and so on.)

I’m ready to be irritated, but then the children spot me and Tiger. The older one, a quiet and fair skinned girl, is smitten with him and urges her father to come see him. The boy, a cherubic blond of maybe three or so, is less interested but approaches the window with his sister.

I wave the toy toward the window so the kids can see the cat. Cats are often nervous with kids pressed up on their windows, but not Tiger. He walks right up and rubs himself in the direction of the boy, who cracks a small smile. The girl drags her father over, insistent that he see this wonderful cat.

At that point, a staff behaviorist comes by and cautions them that Tiger may be a handful for a young family. He’s young and playful, and is being trained with only limited success not to nip. But they’re game, so in they come. Tiger does fine – he purrs loudly and rubs against all of us, he allows Dad to hoist him up, and he stands patiently while the boy attempts to pet his back, rubbing his fur kind of sideways.

They tell me about the old cat they had that died. A much calmer kitty, all gray, who had been part of the family long before these kids. There’s also a dog in the household, and a teenage brother. It sounds like an active place, but these are nice animal people.

We go in to visit a couple other cats, both of them younger and more timid. Max, a small gray and white 7 month old, mostly leans on my lap. But when he sees the boy playing with the hot wheels cars he brought with him, he starts to bat at them too, at one point leaping up and over the boy’s back, which totally cracks up the sister.

It’s toward the end of my shift and they still have half the hallways to cover, so I wish them luck with their selection. I hope they choose Tiger; it seemed like a good match. But I’m not worried about him, he’s the kind of cat that will get picked fast. In any case, it’s nice to see a family spending a pleasant afternoon together.