I suppose I should mention the 44 pound cat. (I’m not even going to bother with a url; you’re here, so you’ve heard about him.) But really, what does it say about our irresponsible society that someone didn’t read the fine print and had a house in foreclosure, and then abandoned her cat? Having first let him balloon to such excess weight (and named him Powder)? Save us from ourselves, President Obama!
A small upside is it makes the rest of us with overweight cats look better. Some animals (including people) certainly pack on the pounds easier than others, yes, but everybody needs limits. My boy came home a chunky 17 pounds, and he’s not lost weight. But I feed him reasonable amounts of adult weight loss kibble, and play with him at least twice a day, trotting up and down the hall with toys for him to chase.
You could almost see the gears turning in his little walnut sized brain though, and after a couple passes he’s going "enough of this already" and flops on his side, willing only to bat at what he can reach from his back. And I tell myself he’s at least a happy boy, very comfortable in his relatively new home; at Maddie’s he cowered and barely ate.
The shelter is busy again, with a low cat shopper to volunteer ratio, and I spend the bulk of my time there showing cats. First a young couple with all the paperwork want to check out a variety of cats and kittens. The guy is fairly cat savvy, but the young woman seems a bit tentative around the friskier kitties, and asked dog-type questions (ex. how often do they need a bath). Those two wander around during my whole shift, indecisive or just undertaking a very thorough search.
A tall and cheerful single woman asks to see Hendry, a striking 10 year old lynx mix with a partly shaved back and stubby curled tail. She’s met him before and he greets us with what I swear is the loudest meow I’ve ever heard. They’re delighted with each other, and so perfect together that Meg Ryan would play her in their romance movie. She says she can’t adopt today but she’ll be back.
Next a pair of youngish guys are looking for a companion for a shy cat at home. They’re both cute in a Central Valley baseball fan kind of way, and I take them to be straight buddies, but maybe my gaydar’s off; later they joke about a cat having a trannie name. Anyway, we check out several and they choose LeBron, a lovely sweet gray girl who would be good company for just about anyone.
At last I can spend some quiet time with some quiet kitties. We have several who are very scared, not even well adjusted enough to fully enjoy human companionship.
Storm is one of these – she’s small and gray, only a year old and very pretty, but too scared yet to even rise from her safe spot and come out for pets. I reach back to stroke her gently, keeping my voice soft. Then I try playing, and she offers some cautious bats at the toy but she’s really not into it. She’s not eating much either – she’s quite thin. It’s a different kind of problem than Powder the 44 pounder, but somebody’s not treated her right either. C’mon, people!
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