Home free

Ahhhhh, I stretch my long legs in front of me, release my claws, then retract them, and gently extend my back legs from underneath me. "Cat yoga" some human author has called this exercise (and even written a book by that name for his own profit), but this stretching is as natural to me as my meow. As I adjust my eyes to the morning light, I notice the shades have been pulled up in our room. Breakfast has been served; soon I'll be ready for another day of watching and waiting. 

Francine, the "cat supervisor," opens the door and heads my way. I've never cozied up to her. She has lots of nervous energy that all of us felines sense whenever she picks us up, and her long acrylic nails dig deep into our sides. She must have worked with squirrels, those rodents with bushy tails, before she was assigned to us. Every once in a while I've given her a little nip to show her my displeasure. This time I decide to cooperate. Perhaps I have a visitor and I am right. There in the guest room where Francine has carried me is the woman I've been waiting for. She's seated in a chair all bundled up in a dark brown suede coat with a plush faux-fur hood that I would love to nap on some day. I must be on my best behavior. Claws in, tail down, ears straight up.

"I'll leave you alone with Fluffy," Francine says in her high-pitched voice, as she places me on a table. "I must warn you, she can bite if she gets excited. It is the policy of the humane society to be truthful to potential adopters about our animals' behavior. You can, of course, end your visit with her at any time." The door closes. Silence.

I look up at the woman with my big green eyes and try not to blink. She pets me on the top of my head very gently and begins talking to me in sweet, soft tones. I won't tell you what she said because it is personal between the two of us, but it won me over in a matter of minutes. Next she pet me under the chin, around the ears, on the scruff of my neck; I didn't want it to end. 

She told me her name was Marie and that she had no other pets and no children. Sounded delightful so far. Two of her elderly cats had died last year, fairly close together in time, and she hadn't been able to adopt another cat until now. She mentioned she was married and then said, "whatever." I guess I will find out what that means if she adopts me. Women have a way of talking to their cats, and I have a way of observing without interfering. Marie works from home so she'd like to have me keep her company. Doesn't like my name (thank you) so would like to call me something Italian sounding. Disapproves of the cat food I've been eating and would like to start me on a healthy diet of "Spot's Stew," which she knows will make my fur thick and shiny. Right now with all this dander and matted fur, I look as if I haven't had a bath or brushed my hair in . . . but she promised to make me look gorgeous. 

I carefully let myself into the purr zone, something I hadn't done since I landed at the shelter. As she took me in her arms, I licked her on her hand. Just a tiny lick to let her know she was the one. Not too much at once. Don't want to be disappointed. She brushed away some dander from my fur and said very quietly in my ear, "You are the one."

Bonding is a beautiful thing.

An empty cage, an empty heart

On my ride back to the humane society, in the back of the volunteer's station wagon, I noticed my fellow feline's cage was empty. Had that insufferable extrovert been adopted, or had he cleverly climbed from the arms of a cat lover "testing him out" and run free? I suspect the latter. If only my mother hadn't taught me such good manners while I was a kitten, I might be running alongside him right now. 

The car stopped short in front of the shelter and my ears flew straight back. Out of my cage and into the social room with my roommates I went. We all live in the same waiting space, eating, sleeping, playing, pacing, until someone comes to rescue us. I've been here the longest of any of the cats, which is not something I'm proud of. We black cats are often perceived by the superstitious as bad luck. But if you look closely at me, you'll notice my mane is a deep, dark chocolate color. I'm a perfect combination of black and brown. Only a few people have ever gotten a really good look at me because I prefer to hang out way up above my roommates on a wooden perch not far from the ceiling. Up here I feel like I'm resting in a tree in the jungle where I can be cool and mysterious. 

During the day when I'm not napping, I watch people walk slowly by our room or stop and look in at us, their faces pressed against the glass windows, magnifying their features and scaring us so much that our tails puff up and straighten from fear. Sometimes women click their long fingernails against the glass to get our attention, and the kittens answer back with their paws. Me? I prefer to be alone and wait and watch. No getting close to my roommates. Some time ago, my friend Sioux was taken away from here by a member of the medical staff. I never saw her again. She was in decent health at the time, but I knew she had not been adopted. No, Sioux's only crime was that she had been in the shelter too long.

She and I were the closest of friends. We did each other's fur in the latest styles, kept each other warm on chilly nights, and played some great ball together. After Sioux disappeared, I promised myself I would never get close to another feline. I couldn't bear to lose another friend that way. So here I am looking down from my perch watching for that tall woman with the green eyes. I'm waiting to purr again. 

A day in the life

It's lonely in the Berkshires. I know, people come here for vacation, fall in love with the beautiful hills and lakes, then settle down for good. But if they knew what I know, they'd head for the hills and keep running. 

I was looking my absolute worst. I was trapped inside a cage at a pet store, my long, black fur matted and covered in dander from stress. My tail, which is a magnificent plume of fur, was hidden beneath me. "Fluffy," the name given to me at birth (don't ever call me that) was extremely depressed. I'd been at the humane society well over the requisite number of days allowed for adoption, and my nine lives were just about up. As a last resort, we death-row felines are transported to public venues like pet stores in the hope that some poor soul will give us homes. Whenever anyone had tried to adopt me back at the humane society, I was brought into a room for "socialization."

Right before the prospective adopters made their decision, I would give them a sharp nip on their hands or fingers to let them know I was no pushover. Before I was brought to the homeless shelter by my original owners, I had to defend myself against two large, aggressive mutts, one very nasty cat, and several small children who liked pulling my plume. Now I'm labeled a "biter." 

As I sat in my cage I noticed a tall woman with eyes the same color as mine—a light, shimmery shade of green—approach my fellow homeless mate in the nearby cage. He was outgoing, full of himself, and rolled over on his back, showing little self-respect. Why he hadn't been adopted yet, I do not know. He was a crowd-pleasing people-lover, something I cannot tolerate in others of my species. I noticed the woman had stepped away from him and was now staring at me. She talked to me for a while in a high-pitched voice that people think we cats seem to like (not true) and told me Fluffy was a terrible name for such a beautiful cat like me. I got up, stretched my front legs, and leaned my head into the bars of the cage so she could touch me. The next thing I knew she was petting me with two of her long fingers under my chin, looking straight into my eyes. I nearly purred. Just as I was about to let myself go into the first level of cat ecstasy, she moved her fingers to the top of my head. Oh how could she stop such pleasure? It was then that I realized there was no way I could get my teeth through those bars to sink into her fingers. Yes, I thought, this could be the start of something new.