I adopted a stray cat. I had no idea what I was letting myself in for
It’s three months since the ginger cat first walked into our lives, sauntering down the rural railway line that adjoins the house. We watched as it approached, then disappeared into the bracken. We shrugged and carried on with our lives.
The cat kept coming back. We’d see it squeeze through the gate into the garden as it went on its morning walk. If we attempted to get within 40 metres, it would simply turn on its heels and run away. Still, we got close enough to see that it was on the small side, and a bit skinny.And its behaviour suggested it was wild, or a stray at least. It clearly needed a good meal.
There was some out-of-date tinned fish in the cupboard, so we left it in an old bowl outside. In the morning, it was gone. So we started leaving out leftovers. Every morning, gone.
Was the cat watching us, waiting in a hiding place somewhere for its bowl to be replenished? It certainly felt that way. Then, on a supermarket shopping trip, we took a decisive step and bought a 12-pack of cat food.
‘We eventually decided he was a tom.’Did this make us pet owners? Of a cat that never came within 20 metres of us? Of an animal that – for all we knew – could also be getting fed and watered by half a dozen other people? We didn’t notice at the time that the distance had halved, that the cat was gradually drawing us in.
Over the following four weeks, the process continued, until we were permitted to approach as close as two metres. At this distance, and after scores more bowls of cat food and leftovers, we started to feel a little proprietorial. That’s when the questions began. Were we now “going steady” with this animal? Should we name it? But wouldn’t naming it mean we were committing ourselves to feeding it for ever? How could we name it without knowing its sex? Why does sex even matter when naming a cat? Should we get it sterilised? Did we even have that right?
If an impartial observer had been around to witness what followed, we might have been taken in for questioning. For the next five days, from our usual exclusion range of between two and five metres, my wife and I would follow the cat around, exhorting it to lift its tail and give us a peek at its genitals.
They looked different every day. It’s astonishing how difficult it is to tell the difference between a pair of testes and a vulva when they’re jiggling swiftly across grass, partially obscured by a swishing, stripy tail. We eventually decided he was a tom, before discovering from the internet that 90% of ginger cats are male. We could have saved ourselves a lot of up-tail action.
The internet also revealed a lot more about cat care in the 21st century. I grew up in a house with three cats, and I recall mainly purring, mewing, cuddles and the odd scratch. My mother may have been doing all the worming, delousing and general maintenance while I was asleep, but somehow I doubt it. The cats just got on with life.
Now, it seems, the off-grid feline lifestyle is as passé as my mother’s mangle. The modern cat is chipped, wormed, vaccinated and needs drops between its shoulder blades every so often to keep the ticks and fleas at bay. It’s a minefield – especially if you can’t touch the cat in the first place.
Remarkably, in a world where online advice for just about every human ailment or symptom inevitably leads to cancer and a “miracle cure”, the advice for animals is generally more responsible, nearly always ending with: “Consult your vet.” Regrettably, the cat makes this impossible. Or it did until last week.
My cat is a monster. Why do I love him so much?Jules Howard
Read moreOn Monday morning, the cat failed to make his regular “ginger ninja” appearance by the food bowl. I hear a miaow. He’s in a nearby bush, coughing. He looks dreadful, fur matted, one eye half-closed. I move his bowl to him. The movement startles him and he runs away, with difficulty.
Later he returns, with the unmistakable “kill me now” look of any sick creature. We feed him, and for the first time he comes inside, eventually to sit on the first cushion he’s ever had. He’s watchful, but we leave him to sleep. Over the next few days he allows us to stroke his head gently and to treat him with flea-repelling drops between his shoulder blades. As he recovers, we hear him purr for the first time.
On Sunday, he sits up to watch the football on TV just as Kevin De Bruyne scores for Manchester City. De Bruyne is ginger, sneaks up on opposing players and has worked his way steadily into the affection of the fans.
Our cat is now called Kevin.
• Nigel Kendall is a freelance journalist and former senior content manager at Guardian Labs
Source: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/nov/09/adopted-stray-cat-pet-ginger
The cat kept coming back. We’d see it squeeze through the gate into the garden as it went on its morning walk. If we attempted to get within 40 metres, it would simply turn on its heels and run away. Still, we got close enough to see that it was on the small side, and a bit skinny.And its behaviour suggested it was wild, or a stray at least. It clearly needed a good meal.
There was some out-of-date tinned fish in the cupboard, so we left it in an old bowl outside. In the morning, it was gone. So we started leaving out leftovers. Every morning, gone.
Was the cat watching us, waiting in a hiding place somewhere for its bowl to be replenished? It certainly felt that way. Then, on a supermarket shopping trip, we took a decisive step and bought a 12-pack of cat food.
‘We eventually decided he was a tom.’Did this make us pet owners? Of a cat that never came within 20 metres of us? Of an animal that – for all we knew – could also be getting fed and watered by half a dozen other people? We didn’t notice at the time that the distance had halved, that the cat was gradually drawing us in.
Over the following four weeks, the process continued, until we were permitted to approach as close as two metres. At this distance, and after scores more bowls of cat food and leftovers, we started to feel a little proprietorial. That’s when the questions began. Were we now “going steady” with this animal? Should we name it? But wouldn’t naming it mean we were committing ourselves to feeding it for ever? How could we name it without knowing its sex? Why does sex even matter when naming a cat? Should we get it sterilised? Did we even have that right?
If an impartial observer had been around to witness what followed, we might have been taken in for questioning. For the next five days, from our usual exclusion range of between two and five metres, my wife and I would follow the cat around, exhorting it to lift its tail and give us a peek at its genitals.
They looked different every day. It’s astonishing how difficult it is to tell the difference between a pair of testes and a vulva when they’re jiggling swiftly across grass, partially obscured by a swishing, stripy tail. We eventually decided he was a tom, before discovering from the internet that 90% of ginger cats are male. We could have saved ourselves a lot of up-tail action.
The internet also revealed a lot more about cat care in the 21st century. I grew up in a house with three cats, and I recall mainly purring, mewing, cuddles and the odd scratch. My mother may have been doing all the worming, delousing and general maintenance while I was asleep, but somehow I doubt it. The cats just got on with life.
Now, it seems, the off-grid feline lifestyle is as passé as my mother’s mangle. The modern cat is chipped, wormed, vaccinated and needs drops between its shoulder blades every so often to keep the ticks and fleas at bay. It’s a minefield – especially if you can’t touch the cat in the first place.
Remarkably, in a world where online advice for just about every human ailment or symptom inevitably leads to cancer and a “miracle cure”, the advice for animals is generally more responsible, nearly always ending with: “Consult your vet.” Regrettably, the cat makes this impossible. Or it did until last week.
My cat is a monster. Why do I love him so much?Jules Howard
Read moreOn Monday morning, the cat failed to make his regular “ginger ninja” appearance by the food bowl. I hear a miaow. He’s in a nearby bush, coughing. He looks dreadful, fur matted, one eye half-closed. I move his bowl to him. The movement startles him and he runs away, with difficulty.
Later he returns, with the unmistakable “kill me now” look of any sick creature. We feed him, and for the first time he comes inside, eventually to sit on the first cushion he’s ever had. He’s watchful, but we leave him to sleep. Over the next few days he allows us to stroke his head gently and to treat him with flea-repelling drops between his shoulder blades. As he recovers, we hear him purr for the first time.
On Sunday, he sits up to watch the football on TV just as Kevin De Bruyne scores for Manchester City. De Bruyne is ginger, sneaks up on opposing players and has worked his way steadily into the affection of the fans.
Our cat is now called Kevin.
• Nigel Kendall is a freelance journalist and former senior content manager at Guardian Labs
Source: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/nov/09/adopted-stray-cat-pet-ginger