Tell Me About It - Gilroy

It's another quasi holiday at Maddie's. Lots of activity, whole families visiting, kids dashing along the hallways in those shoes that light up, grown ups giggling like children at the cute cats.

The first guy to grab my attention is Boomer, who's newly arrived from Animal Care and Control. He's a vivacious long hair tabby with an unusually loud demanding meow. I imagine a sad story goes with him - although he's friendly, he's clearly upset and searching the hallway for someone who's not here. He lets me pet him but stays alert, yowling whenever someone enters the hall.

One cat meowing can have a domino effect, with anyone else prone to vocalizing pitching in, so between the cats and people it gets fairly noisy.

I help a mom and her daughter, who's a bit scared of cats. Can't tell her age, nine or ten maybe. Anyway, she's decided only one cat out of the whole shelter will do, a delicate little gray girl named Natasha. We all sit together and discuss cat body language and the meanings of tail movements.

Most other visitors decline help or make it clear they're not planning to adopt. So I go to visit another loud guy, Gilroy, who demands attention from everyone he sees. He's a ten year old mangy looking long hair, kind of smoky black, with battered looking ears and tail. Full of personality, though, very sweet and can't get enough of any lap.

He's got a whole long story written up about him on his door as well as several undignified photos; you can tell this guy has been around the block several times but he's ready to come inside. His photo in the Santa suit, for instance - most cats would not tolerate such a thing, but for Gilroy, as long as you're paying attention to him, he doesn't much care what kind of outfit he has to wear.

One of these noisy families would be just fine for him. No one's interested so far, but the day is young. Like the cats, I watch and wait.

Departed - Thelma

I started the morning at 6:30am, with a cold rainy drive to the crowded airport to drop off the boyfriend. Also, it’s the one year anniversary of my late kitty Muppy’s death. . . so it’s just not shaping up to be that good a day.

I have several emotions churning a year later, beyond the obvious sadness. There are many pleasant memories, the puzzlement of where did those 15 years disappear to, even relief that the end was relatively fast. And guilt – because my Montana, whom I still call the new cat, has nosed his big sweet self pretty far into my psyche.

For a long time he was like a big friendly interloper, despite his attempts to win me over. But I realize in talking to others that he has done just that. Where I first complained about his obsession with kneading my hair and neck and sleeping head to head, now I rationalize it. Tell him he’s a good boy as he gazes adoringly into my eyes, and mean it. And then feel remorse pangs about no longer so much missing, starting to not even remember, all those things about my Muppy.

Which brings me to Thelma. It’s pretty slow at the shelter, which is good because I’m pretty tired, and just bonding with the cats is my speed today. Thelma’s a perky 7 year old brown tabby/calico, with neat stripes that vary in color; she’s long legged, alert and playful. She reminds me in both looks and personality of C.R., a precious cat I lived with for a couple years in the ‘80s.

My former roommate told me C.R. wandered around crying every night after I first moved out of the shared flat. I missed her terribly, and looked forward to updates and occasional visits. But time passed and more time passed, and suddenly those decade or two feline life spans seem cruel and unfair. So many dear little ones, gone and slowly being forgotten.

Thelma’s antics, batting for my attention as I sit spacing out, and Morrison’s plaintive meows from across the corridor, bring me back to the present. "Hey, we’re here now…"

Make it Stop - Evie

I switched my shift to mid-week, so it’s pretty quiet at Maddie’s, at least at first. A few people wander through, but they’re just looking, or seeking a cat fix but aren’t able to adopt.

I stop in to see one of my current favorites, Evie, who happens to be housed in the condo where I first met my boy Montana. She’s a sweet, soft, slightly chunky two year old calico. She’s initially shy but warms up quickly, she shows well, and I can’t believe she’s been here for a month now.

She’s a squirmy girl – she’ll climb partway into my lap, then roll off it and onto the floor next to me, pressing belly up against my leg and deliriously happy to get a belly rub. She purrs loudly and kneads the air with her paws. Evie only gets interested in playing when I’m about to leave, but I’m glad to see she stays out and alert even when I’ve moved across the corridor to meet adorable tabby and white O’Reilly.

They’re doing some kind of constructions upstairs, and suddenly a very loud motor starts up seemingly just above us. O’Reilly stops playing and leaps to the top of his structure, Evie retreats to her bedding, and the other cats I can see are either nervously at their doorways or hidden away.

It’s loud and annoying, but I try to reassure all the kitties that it won’t harm them. And that it will stop, they just have to put up with it for a bit.

I’m unexpectedly reminded of our economy. I spent part of the morning sifting through year end appeals from a host of worthy organizations, and also looking at my 403b and other bank statements. Yeah, there’s a part of me that wants to crawl under the bedding too.

This spiral thing will stop too, right? I’ve got to believe that, and to make my year end donations in spite of the extraordinarily gloomy outlook and outright craziness. (Dude selling Senate seats, for instance, and some of the other pols have to strive to appear surprised or outraged.)

The construction noises sputter and start and stop several times before lessening to a mild drone. The cats remain wary.

On Display - Jenga

I arrive to my shift only to find the shelter is closed 90 minutes beyond its normal 11 am opening. Oops. No reason given. I snag a staff person to let me in the locked side entrance. The shelter is eerily quiet and deserted. I have to confess I kind of like it that way – it’s like some childhood fantasy of sneaking around a giant cat house.

Whole rows of cats need visits. Ideally each cat gets at least one volunteer visitor a day, but some have gone three days since their last socializing session. It’s the time of year, people get busy, plus the Macy’s holiday windows [http://www.sfspca.org/adoption/macys.shtml] are in full swing, taking up many volunteer hours.

I head for some scaredy cats (those unlikely to ever set paw in Macy’s), starting with Jenga. There are several cats in hallway 4 classified via "felinality" as Private Investigator, the most timid rating. But the system falters here – the other cats are cautious and slow to approach; Jenga is the absolute extreme.

She’s a two year old dil tortie who’s been at the shelter since May. The first few times I saw her she stayed fully hidden in a cat cozy, and she hissed and swatted when I made the mistake of offering my hand in for a sniff. In the intervening months the cozy has been removed so her best hiding spot is on a shelf of her climbing structure, where she spends most of her time.

She doesn’t run away, but crouches, eyes wide, ever wary. People have mistreated her, that’s for sure, although I have to guess her nature hasn’t helped. She has quite the stubborn streak. I try to wear her down with soft loving talk. She will allow herself to be touched only by the wooden handle of the dangle toy. This she clearly likes, and each visit now I manage to ease a hand in for some behind the ears stroking (which she enjoys till she realizes what’s happening then stiffens with a mortified expression).

She has the tiniest little purr, just a soft little clicking sound. But she does purr every time I’m there with her. Unless a door opens or someone walks by or something. This is a cat who does not deal well with being on display. I watch her watching me as I bond with Maya, who’s housed across from her. Her eyes meet mine then turn away.

After awhile everyone returns from wherever they were, and cat shoppers wander through, mostly just looking. I’m in with Tara, a frisky eleven year old, when a large group troops by and someone official says, "There’s one of our volunteers playing with a cat!"

Everybody stares in and I self consciously keep dragging the toy around for her to chase. Fortunately Tara is cute and entertaining – nothing like a bunch of strangers seeing your attempts at play disdainfully ignored. But it makes me think of Jenga, how she’s so nervous with eyes upon her. Wish she got it that I get it.