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 But I’m a decade or so out of date, I realize; this fellow wouldn’t have even been born before the mid-80s, rather he’s studied history and gone retro.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.