Safe and Warm - Powder

Maddie’s feels nice compared to the blustery day outside. (I know, it’s nothing like the ice storms or three feet of snow elsewhere, but it’s no California Dreamin’ out there either.)

For whatever else is going on in the economy, things are ok here: donations were arriving up to the last minute New Year’s Eve and cats are coming and going at a pretty good clip, between the Macy’s windows and holiday shoppers.

There are a bunch of new kitties, but I have little time for socializing visits even with several other volunteers around. I help a woman and her teenage son, who are looking for a kitten to join a bossy four year old cat at home. The boy is all slouchy in his baggy pants, but quite sensitive and articulate about cats, and the mom and son are nicely comfortable with each other.

Next I spend awhile with a nice quiet middle aged woman who’s just venturing out after having lost her 18 year old kitty a couple months back. She seems like a fine cat companion, with a quiet house, a host of cat accouterment, and a preference for organic wet cat food. We visit three young guys each for awhile, and she has a hard time choosing. She says she feels funny about getting the same kind of cat, an orange marmalade, but she is very much drawn to one named Leon, who’s newly arrived. And she seems a bit guilty about adopting a young cutie when there are needier cats – but he’s a real winner, spunky, affectionate and adorable, and I encourage the match.

Then a fellow asks for help locating a friendly three to five year old female. It takes a minute to place his accent – then I realize it reminds me of Inspector Clouseau of Pink Panther fame. So when he says, "Is she cuddly," well, I don’t laugh outwardly but in my head admonish myself to stop being juvenile. It turns out he’s picking the cat for himself and his wife, who didn’t think she could handle seeing all the homeless kitties. He decides he’ll take Sarah, a big friendly tortie, though only the second cat he meets. It’s more like he’s gone out to shop for a scarf than a pet, but he seems satisfied and heads for the front.

Hallway 5 is loaded with people. Three little girls are pressed up against the door of the back condo, and the two cats are right there rubbing toward them. I ask the nearest adult if they’re interested in adopting. She says they were actually just dropping off some donations, but maybe her little girl could pet the cats?

The cats, Buster and Powder, are big friendly guys who don’t seem at all bothered by kids, so I usher them in. The other two girls immediately want to come too; the mom’s confer and then in we all go. The girls need to shed their rain boots, and one of them is really more interested in the cats’ toys. But the other two pat the cats as best they can. One of them even hugs Powder, who politely ducks away but then spins around to rub around some more.

Soon the kids have to put their rain gear back on and head out, and I’ve got other cats and customers to attend to. But it’s a sweet little visit for all of us.

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.

Game Face On - Morrison

Happy day after Thanksgiving. Here’s a holiday I really like – good food and friends, no shopping or songs or explosives, and a nice four day weekend.

Half the town’s at Maddie’s though – a diverse rainbow of San Francisco families and singles are making the rounds. Many are just entertaining themselves and out of town guests, and power to them; it’s better (and cheaper) than mindless consumerism. There are several cute multi-generational groups cooing at the cats. But quite a few others are ready to commit.

Right off the bat, I help a couple who say they’re looking for a pair of kittens after having lost their elderly cats. They have a couple small dogs in the house (properly trained by the prior cats), and one of the guy’s mom lives downstairs and wants a young female. But feisty and friendly eight year old Dante catches their eye, and pretty soon they’re talking about adopting him along with a similarly outgoing kitten.

The brave and bold of the cats have the advantage at the shelter. Talkative Louie has been adopted, as has personality super star Miss Lady. A nd today’s a particularly good day for kitties not bothered by voices and footsteps and kids’ noses pressed up against their windows.

The shelter was closed on Thanksgiving itself, which must have been a break for the shy guys. Morrison is one of these, a pretty seven year old blue point Siamese mix. He’s got lovely blue eyes and a wise expression, but he’s slow to warm up, and tends to stay hidden.

Once he gets comfortable, though, he’s really sweet and eager to please. I visit with him for a bit between helping customers, hoping either someone will notice him on my lap or he’ll stay out by his door and catch people’s eyes.

"You gotta be assertive," I tell him. "I know lots of noise and people can be tiring, but try to make the extra effort." Probably there’s a little lesson here for us quiet cat people.

Sometimes it Takes Awhile - Sprinkles

My volunteer shift starts out slowly. I take a young couple in to see a kitten that they've already met and pretty much already decided on.
The little tabby behaves adorably, and they agree to take her.

Then another young woman asks to see Nikita, a sweet, soft and outgoing tabby. She confesses that she can't have a cat in her apartment but she just really misses having a cat around. She's fairly new in town, maybe a bit lonely too, and we sit and chat and swap cat stories, while little Nikita slithers between us, purring and batting at her toys.

There are a bunch of cats who need socializing visits, and I move condo to condo, spending quiet lap time with a series of shy girls. Ten year old orange and white Sprinkles is finally starting to come out of her shell. She's a big, kind of chunky girl, who usually stays in constant nervous motion – she kneads, rolls around, hides and reappears, kneads some more.

Today, though, she makes it into my lap, and once there forgets her dignity in a big way. She curls into a feet up ball, and starts washing her paws and face, then grabs my had with both her paws to give it a wash. She's so cute but no potential adopters are around to see her.

Toward the end of my shift it gets busier, though. A couple who have been making the rounds have a list of several cats to meet. We start with Evie and Nikita, both young friendly adult females. The women are dressed alike, both with longish blond hair. They are clearly cat people, and explain they had to put down their last cat after he got ill.

As we sit with one then another cat, talking quietly, noting their special characteristics, I discover they only lost their cat a week ago. I realize they are not so much stoic as still numb. The taller of the pair seems the move vulnerable or in need; she's also calling the shots as far as naming the qualities they're seeking and deciding who to visit next.

A delicate but important part of my role involves assessing a potential adopter's fit and readiness to take on the responsibility of a new cat. And while I have no doubt these women would make great kitty parents, I have to gently suggest that it may be too early to get another cat yet.

I avoid telling them how they should feel, but speak about my own experience, of how there was such a huge gap and the strong need to fill it, yet that time of mourning was part of the healing process too. They kind of hear me. But kind of get lost in stroking the cats too, speaking in low voices to each other about how much they like them.

They're leaning toward a gorgeous four month old orange tabby boy. I was hoping they would want an older cat, then I could at least say it would probably still be available in another week. Instead I leave them still thinking things over; the best I can say is that I'm sure whichever and whenever they choose, the cat will be lucky to go home with them. And I take off, reminding myself to be glad I'm almost a year past that immediate and painful period of grief.