Early adopter woes
Dec. 14th, 2009 09:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
grrgoylIt's been 1-1/2 months since we lost our 17-year-old cat, Alsatia, and we've been strong -- well, I've been strong. Tery's been testing her resolve with daily visits to Craigslist and PetFinders.com. I knew she would like a second cat. Myself (and Schminky Minky, I strongly suspect), I've been happy enough with just the one.
So it really wasn't much of a surprise Friday when Tery announced there was "someone she wanted me to meet" at the hospital. One of her techs had a stray in her neighborhood that had been hanging about for months. With the temperature being in the single digits all week, she brought him to the hospital, neutered him, and now didn't know what to do. She was about to release him back onto the street when Tery crossed his path and it was love at first sight.
We've only ever had female cats, and only ever calicos (well, all calicos are female except for an exceedingly tiny percentage, leading my mother to ask once how they reproduced), so her choice of a male non-calico was a bit out of the ordinary. But he was such a loverboy and so handsome that she really, really, really wanted to make a go of it. She was so excited about him she had set up the second litter box for him the minute she got home and sent me in with a carrier to bring him home. She also already had a name picked out, Julian; I asked when I got to have a cat named Severus (as in Snape), and she said when we got a black cat. So in other words, probably never. I promised to check him out, but ultimately the final decision of course was up to Madame Mutton Chops.
I found Julian in his kennel no problem, and he was gorgeous. I don't want to say that every cat I see now looks like a Norwegian forest cat (see previous entry), but he seemed to fit the bill even more than my Mitten -- the beginnings of a ruff (he's less than a year old), big bushy Wegie tail, huge paws that foretell a massive adult size, and best of all leopard spots that create quite an air of exoticism. I'm not kidding:
However, something had happened in the time between Tery left the hospital and I arrived. I opened his cage door and he came up to greet me. I got to pet his head twice before he suddenly turned hissy and snarly. What the...? He darted to the back of the cage and wouldn't come near me.
I called Tery perplexed. She thought maybe he disliked being in a cage so he might be friendlier if I took him out. Unfortunately this could only be done standing on a stool to reach him at the back and tossing a towel over his head to pick him up, something that never makes you popular with the felines. He got in one shot at my cheek that drew blood before I got him to the floor.
I got him out and gave him the run of the downstairs with me. He was an explorer, climbing into every available nook and cranny. I worried that I wouldn't be able to get him back into his cage by morning (the primary reason I don't give strange cats free run at night) but Tery was sure he'd take to me long before then.
As long as he could see me on the opposite end of the room he was fine. Anything more forward than that resulted in instant hissing and swiping. So I decided to go about my business and let him come to me in his own time. I just moved about very, very slowly to avoid startling him because more often than not I'd turn around and he'd be directly behind me, less than a foot away. It was like trying to work with an angry snake following me around, flying into a rage despite my best efforts to avoid it.
I tried talking to him, coaxing him, constantly saying his name (which of course he couldn't possibly recognize this early), but it seemed the only behavior he wanted from me was complete avoidance. He sure sent out some mixed signals though -- more than once he'd flop onto his back and stretch luxuriously, a move my Frances Feathertail executes when she wants me to pet her belly in long, slow strokes. I knew better than to assume Julian was looking for the same.
It broke my heart that he hated me so much, because he was so very beautiful, and smart as a whip: I had given him a ball to play with, and watched as he batted it between an open door and a wall. He didn't waste a second trying to work it back out from the front. He instantly circled around to the hinge side to swat it out from behind. When he got tired and wanted to chill, he strolled over to the bottom shelf of the blanket rack and knocked a small stack of baby blankets onto the floor, creating a nice little bed for himself. That there is problem-solving, my friends.
Morning arrived and I was no closer to petting him, let alone getting him home. He was still painful after his surgery so the tech had prepared an injection for me to give for the ride, a combo pain med and tranquilizer. Great, in the first 8 hours of our life together I would have: tossed a towel over his head to drag him out of the cage, probably have to do that again to throw him into a carrier, then give him a painful shot. Why WOULDN'T we be BFFs forever?
Tery thankfully agreed that was no way to start off and thought we should maybe try again Saturday night. I still had to get him back in the cage, though. I thought I'd lure him with food (he was quite a good eater, being a stray for so long), but he was too clever for that. I thought I'd feed him and try the towel strategy -- wouldn't really endear me to him, but I had to get him back into the cage. No go, he wasn't falling for that trick again either.
So I got a dog leash and managed to loop it around his neck. He fought it like a bucking bronco, contorting and twisting around every step of the way. Then I made the mistake of trying to carry him. I picked him up and he turned into the Tazmanian Devil -- screaming bloody murder and flailing around in full berzerker mode. It was actually extremely terrifying and didn't end well for me either:
If you think it's easy typing, or for that matter doing anything, without your dominant index finger, try it some time.
Out of pure fear and not knowing what else to do, I let go of him and hung him with the leash at arm's length (which didn't keep me from sustaining more damage), finally tossing him in the cage forcefully. Well, THAT should shatter whatever fragile trust we had managed to build together.
I cried the whole way home, partly because the deep gashes he had inflicted hurt like a bitch, but mostly because I had never had a cat hate me so much that I wasn't forcing medication on. I think my feelings were hurt, because I pride myself somewhat on having a talent with cats and earning their trust quite easily (our vet friend Liana thinks I have an inner stillness that calms them. Well, where the hell was my inner stillness tonight when I needed it most?)
When I walked through the front door still weeping, Tery said it was okay to forget about adopting him, but I wasn't so willing. She said he was a big lover puss with her and I believed he could be again. She theorized that maybe it was the pain medication he was on, a drug that is occasionally known to have the unfortunate side effect of psychotic outburts in some animals. She thought we should give him a week or so at the hospital to get socialized and then think about it. This is a sound plan whether we take him or not, because she said the way he is now he'd probably be euthanized if he went to a shelter. They can't adopt out cats that like to fillet human flesh.
Saturday night went slightly better after the decision to avoid cages and keep him in Tery's office instead. Again he followed me around, but whenever I called him Julian he would hiss automatically. I think he associates that name with our disastrous first night together. Tery agreed with my suggestion to change it to Logan, on account of his Adamantium claws and his past shrouded in mystery. He seemed a bit happier with that choice.
Hopefully this week will be productive in creating some trust in humans for young Logan. Which of course guarantees nothing if/when he meets Francesca Sofia.
So it really wasn't much of a surprise Friday when Tery announced there was "someone she wanted me to meet" at the hospital. One of her techs had a stray in her neighborhood that had been hanging about for months. With the temperature being in the single digits all week, she brought him to the hospital, neutered him, and now didn't know what to do. She was about to release him back onto the street when Tery crossed his path and it was love at first sight.
We've only ever had female cats, and only ever calicos (well, all calicos are female except for an exceedingly tiny percentage, leading my mother to ask once how they reproduced), so her choice of a male non-calico was a bit out of the ordinary. But he was such a loverboy and so handsome that she really, really, really wanted to make a go of it. She was so excited about him she had set up the second litter box for him the minute she got home and sent me in with a carrier to bring him home. She also already had a name picked out, Julian; I asked when I got to have a cat named Severus (as in Snape), and she said when we got a black cat. So in other words, probably never. I promised to check him out, but ultimately the final decision of course was up to Madame Mutton Chops.
I found Julian in his kennel no problem, and he was gorgeous. I don't want to say that every cat I see now looks like a Norwegian forest cat (see previous entry), but he seemed to fit the bill even more than my Mitten -- the beginnings of a ruff (he's less than a year old), big bushy Wegie tail, huge paws that foretell a massive adult size, and best of all leopard spots that create quite an air of exoticism. I'm not kidding:
However, something had happened in the time between Tery left the hospital and I arrived. I opened his cage door and he came up to greet me. I got to pet his head twice before he suddenly turned hissy and snarly. What the...? He darted to the back of the cage and wouldn't come near me.
I called Tery perplexed. She thought maybe he disliked being in a cage so he might be friendlier if I took him out. Unfortunately this could only be done standing on a stool to reach him at the back and tossing a towel over his head to pick him up, something that never makes you popular with the felines. He got in one shot at my cheek that drew blood before I got him to the floor.
I got him out and gave him the run of the downstairs with me. He was an explorer, climbing into every available nook and cranny. I worried that I wouldn't be able to get him back into his cage by morning (the primary reason I don't give strange cats free run at night) but Tery was sure he'd take to me long before then.
As long as he could see me on the opposite end of the room he was fine. Anything more forward than that resulted in instant hissing and swiping. So I decided to go about my business and let him come to me in his own time. I just moved about very, very slowly to avoid startling him because more often than not I'd turn around and he'd be directly behind me, less than a foot away. It was like trying to work with an angry snake following me around, flying into a rage despite my best efforts to avoid it.
I tried talking to him, coaxing him, constantly saying his name (which of course he couldn't possibly recognize this early), but it seemed the only behavior he wanted from me was complete avoidance. He sure sent out some mixed signals though -- more than once he'd flop onto his back and stretch luxuriously, a move my Frances Feathertail executes when she wants me to pet her belly in long, slow strokes. I knew better than to assume Julian was looking for the same.
It broke my heart that he hated me so much, because he was so very beautiful, and smart as a whip: I had given him a ball to play with, and watched as he batted it between an open door and a wall. He didn't waste a second trying to work it back out from the front. He instantly circled around to the hinge side to swat it out from behind. When he got tired and wanted to chill, he strolled over to the bottom shelf of the blanket rack and knocked a small stack of baby blankets onto the floor, creating a nice little bed for himself. That there is problem-solving, my friends.
Morning arrived and I was no closer to petting him, let alone getting him home. He was still painful after his surgery so the tech had prepared an injection for me to give for the ride, a combo pain med and tranquilizer. Great, in the first 8 hours of our life together I would have: tossed a towel over his head to drag him out of the cage, probably have to do that again to throw him into a carrier, then give him a painful shot. Why WOULDN'T we be BFFs forever?
Tery thankfully agreed that was no way to start off and thought we should maybe try again Saturday night. I still had to get him back in the cage, though. I thought I'd lure him with food (he was quite a good eater, being a stray for so long), but he was too clever for that. I thought I'd feed him and try the towel strategy -- wouldn't really endear me to him, but I had to get him back into the cage. No go, he wasn't falling for that trick again either.
So I got a dog leash and managed to loop it around his neck. He fought it like a bucking bronco, contorting and twisting around every step of the way. Then I made the mistake of trying to carry him. I picked him up and he turned into the Tazmanian Devil -- screaming bloody murder and flailing around in full berzerker mode. It was actually extremely terrifying and didn't end well for me either:
If you think it's easy typing, or for that matter doing anything, without your dominant index finger, try it some time.
Out of pure fear and not knowing what else to do, I let go of him and hung him with the leash at arm's length (which didn't keep me from sustaining more damage), finally tossing him in the cage forcefully. Well, THAT should shatter whatever fragile trust we had managed to build together.
I cried the whole way home, partly because the deep gashes he had inflicted hurt like a bitch, but mostly because I had never had a cat hate me so much that I wasn't forcing medication on. I think my feelings were hurt, because I pride myself somewhat on having a talent with cats and earning their trust quite easily (our vet friend Liana thinks I have an inner stillness that calms them. Well, where the hell was my inner stillness tonight when I needed it most?)
When I walked through the front door still weeping, Tery said it was okay to forget about adopting him, but I wasn't so willing. She said he was a big lover puss with her and I believed he could be again. She theorized that maybe it was the pain medication he was on, a drug that is occasionally known to have the unfortunate side effect of psychotic outburts in some animals. She thought we should give him a week or so at the hospital to get socialized and then think about it. This is a sound plan whether we take him or not, because she said the way he is now he'd probably be euthanized if he went to a shelter. They can't adopt out cats that like to fillet human flesh.
Saturday night went slightly better after the decision to avoid cages and keep him in Tery's office instead. Again he followed me around, but whenever I called him Julian he would hiss automatically. I think he associates that name with our disastrous first night together. Tery agreed with my suggestion to change it to Logan, on account of his Adamantium claws and his past shrouded in mystery. He seemed a bit happier with that choice.
Hopefully this week will be productive in creating some trust in humans for young Logan. Which of course guarantees nothing if/when he meets Francesca Sofia.
