I’m sitting here watching Ninja snooze in the entry. The front door is open to let the heat out, and the screen door is securely latched to keep the cats in. Ninja is enjoying the evening air and that is making me glad. We all know his time is short. It’s so unfair to be ending his life, barely 6 years old. But cats and kidney disease are not good friends, and he is losing his battle.
We’ve been talking a lot lately, he and I. We share quite a history packed into such a short time. He’s one of Maggie’s kids. Born in the spring. One of the “miracle litter” that survived her near-fatal illness. He and his sister, Nikita were among the last to be named. Both coal black, I used to refer to them as the Midnight Twins and later as “the little ninjas” before they became Nikita and Ninja.
One night while they were still young they were playing - running in and out of my bedroom. The door was open to the deck, and the door to the rest of the house securely closed to keep my cats inside. Somehow, one of them was under my bed when I closed the slider. The one outside was so distressed, that I ended up letting the inside one back out. Pretty stupid when your goal is to trap them all and get them fixed. I know - I’m too empathetic. It’s one of the reasons I’m a terrible trapper. Anyway, I will never forget the picture of the two of them sleeping that night. They were curled up on the mat, paws wrapped securely around each other as if holding for dear life.
Nikita was easily trapped, but Ninja defied all my tricks. Had he seen too many others go into the trap to be fooled? Or did he listen to Maggie, who also defied all attempts at being trapped? But, Ninja did have one weakness. The orange fuzzy toy. It was shaped like a carrot, with feathers for the “greenery” but we called it The Orange Mousey. And Ninja called it “Mine!”
One night I was tossing two Orange Mousey toys around on the deck. Ninja would chase one and grab it, I would toss the other and he would drop the one he had to go after the one flying through the air. He was like a dog! A large, sleek black panther of a dog! It was a game we’d played before, but this particular night I tried a variation. I tossed one into my bedroom through the open sliding glass door. Without hesitation he ran in after it. I tossed the other one out on the deck and out he came. I picked up the first one and tossed it out. The the next one back in. Predictably he ran back in. I closed the slider.
Oops. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I hadn’t really planned for this, and now, at 11:30 at night, I didn’t have any plan for what to do next. I walked around and let myself in the front door. Then the practical side of me took over: I went to bed. With a ticked off wild feral cat hiding under my bed. Well…what would you have done? I woke up during the night to find he’d moved on top of the dresser. He was sitting in perfect regal cat position, glaring balefully at me. Although I couldn’t get close let alone touch him outside, we’d been pretty good friends. Now I was his jailer, and he was rethinking the relationship.
I would have been fine if I’d waited a few days and let him relax and learn I was the same person who played with him outside. But, at this point, I was still influenced by all the “expert opinions” I was hearing daily and I was told to set a trap in my room to get him. So, I did. I heard the trap click when he went in, and the next morning took him in to be neutered. He came home one very angry cat. I intended to release him the following day, but we discovered someone was putting out poison. So, I delayed. And delayed. And he got more and more ticked off.
One day I decided I’d had enough of his attitude. I’d watched two feral momcats have a dispute without so much as a hiss. They just stared at each other until the less dominant one backed down.
Yeah, yeah, I know - staring at a cat is a direct challenge. But, that is exactly what I meant, and that is exactly what I did. I got on my hands and knees and stared at him. He reacted by throwing himself at the door of the large dog crate he was in. His ears were flat back and there is no doubt he would have ripped me to shreds if he’d been able. I tried to be completely calm inside - zen-like. It took over 15 minutes, but finally he started to back down. His growling continued, but his spitting turned to hissing. His ears went from flat back to sidewise. He was still one unhappy dude, but the staredown was doing it’s job. Gradually the hissing stopped and the ears came a little bit forward. He settled down into a crouch. The growling continued. I stared. It’s hard not to blink! But, blinking is kitty-speak for peace/love/hi/don’t eat me/I won’t eat you and I wanted to leave some doubt in his mind about my intentions. Finally he settled down and tucked one paw under. A few more growls then they stopped. And, finally, finally, finally - he tucked his remaining paw under.
My knees were killing me. So…with his apparent submission to my “authority” I rocked back onto my heels. At my movement….he exploded!! Growling, hissing. spitting, stamping.
Whatever. Round 1 was over.
We went a few more rounds before he finally left the hostility behind. Over time he turned into a loving lap cat. I am so glad I gave him a chance! He loved his life. And his mousey. And he taught me that there is no such thing as a truly unrepentant feral. Time, patience, a complete disregard for one’s personal safety (just kidding on that - sort of), tuna, and an Orange Mousey can tame the wildest beast.
