Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Cats and more cats (part 1)

So, let me make it clear.  I never liked cats.  I thought they were shifty and independent, not able to be trained.  The way my parents talked about cats was probably the root of those thoughts.  My mother was afraid that cats would wind around her feet and trip her.  My father talked about how cats sucked your breath while you slept and suffocated you.  The barn cats would sit on the window sill on the old farm house and stare at him through the windows as we ate supper, and he would be constantly chasing them off.

My children loved cats, although we never had them.  And while I would talk about how I disliked cats, at every house I ever visited that had cats, the cats would find my lap to sit in, or twine around my feet.

Then in a "magical" moment, we found puppies under the barn on our place, abandoned puppies, and I bottle fed one after finding homes for the rest.  My children would ask, if we found a kitten under the barn, could we keep it, and I would distractedly say, sure.  I mean, what WERE the odds.

And indeed, one day, my son came yelling, "we found a kitten".  And, yes, he had.  It fit in one of my palms.  Its eyes were matted shut and it was covered with fleas.  Its nose was runny.  "Mom, we can't let it die!" was the cry.  So, I googled a milk-like concoction to keep it alive and the next day, I drove the little piece of fur to a local veterinarian.  He shook his head and said he had doubts that it would survive.  It had an upper respiratory infection, was dehydrated, and other other issues.  They gave him fluids and antibiotics and vitamins, gave me formula and oral meds and tips for care and told me to come back in a few days if it was still alive.  The kids called it KitKat.  I fed it every few hours, forced medicine down it throat, gave it a warm bath, wiped its little nose and eyes and bottom.  And it survived.  The vet's office gave it more fluids, more antibiotics, cleaned out its ears and finally determined it was a little boy.  And gave it a poor chance of survival.  I persisted, taking care of that 8 oz bundle.  I nebulized it, bottle fed it, made a tiny sized litter box, paid the vet bill.  And then, we had a cat.  I treated it more like a dog, so it begs for food, plays with ball and is very vocal.

Our KitKat was probably an offspring from the neighbor's cats.  He had lots of animals, including a pack of cats, which he fed, but did nothing more for.  It was a bit of a problem as they would come to the barn, spread fleas, have kittens, etc.  Then this winter, he moved.

The neighbor took his goats and chickens and doves and ducks and dogs and the cats that were "his".  Apparently, he spayed/neutered the cats that were his, but not the others.  He left behind a dozen or so cats.  Some residents said they would shoot the remaining cats if they saw them.  For some crazy reason, I could not let that happen.  So, I started doing research into feral cats.  Not really feral, these cats were strays and scared and confused and wouldn't trust me.

I called the shelters and rescues, read about cats and traps.  I started feeding them and then borrowed some traps and set up appointments for having them spayed/neutered, a local rescue would keep the females overnight, then I would bring them home.  Thus, the great animal trapping of 2017 began.

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