Not So Fleeting George
This frigid weather and George II nestled in my lap, a furry ball of feline keeping me warm, reminds me of his predeccessor (but not related) and how we came to be adopted by her.
We used to, when Old Man was Young Man, and the kids were little and all, live in an apartment complex that was 3 stories high, no elevater and each apartment opened out into a common stairwell. Two apartments shared each landing and the stairwell, although not heated, was closed to the elements. Which, at this time of year was good because the city in which we lived was being strangeld by a blizzard, much as the country was a day or two ago.
In the middle of this frightful blizzard, I heard a child crying and it seemed to be coming from the stairwell. After checking to make sure my own children were ok, I went looking for who could possibly be making that noise, only to find a half-starved, almost frozen tabby whose meows sounded like the baby I thought I heard. I knew no one in the stairwell owned a cat such as this, so I picked her up and brought into my apartment. Of course, the kids were very happy to have a pet and it was useless to explain that we didn't 'have' a pet, we had to find the owner and send the cat home.
The poor cat was so frightened, she ran under the first piece of furniture she could find . . . and stayed there for the next 48 hours. At least she was quiet. I slid a bowl of water under the couch, then began calling people. I had a friend who lived in the next building and she had a cat just like this one. I dialed her number and realized the futility as I looked out of my window over to her apartment and saw the cat in question sitting on the window ledge. But, she gave me some good advice about who I should call within the city. I had no idea, we didn't have animals, hadn't had an animal since we moved to this town. By the end of the day, my hopes had dwindled about finding the owner very quickly. This was not good. Not only did I not have any cat supplies, but the kids were getting more and more excited about having a pet, even if the pet stayed hidden under the couch.
My neighbor upstairs was adopted by a cat, so I traipsed up the stairs to see if she could help me out. She was only too glad, she said she heard the yowling and didn't want to be the rescuer because she didn't know how her cat would handle a stranger. She gave me some kitten chow and a little litter, I'd have to get a pan from elsewhere. A boxlid would do, I decided. Line it with a plastic trash bag, it would do just fine for 24 hours. I wasn't going to have the cat that long.
The next morning the cat had hidden herself under the buffet in the dining room where I had put water, food and the litter box. Now, Dear Reader, please don't get upset about kitty litter being in the dining room. It was the only place I had that I could put these things and the cat stay 'hidden' away from the kids. I felt I had a better than average chance of the cat using the pan rather than the floor or rug. And remember, the cat was only going to be with us a day or two . . .
Which turned into 3 or 4 and the cat still would not come out of hiding. It was drinking water, eating food and using the litter boxlid (which I had to change out everyday), but it would not leave its home under the buffet. The blizzard had let up some by now, but it was still frightfully cold outside. I had considered putting it back outside so that it could find its own way home as I was not having much luck. But the kids pleaded with me. I couldn't put the poor kitty out.
About the fourth night of the cat not coming out, I was determined to find its owners the next day or take it to the pound. I just couldn't take cleaning the litter boxlid of an invisible cat. I went to bed, snuggled under a sheet, 2 blankets, a quilt, and a bedspread. I was cold. And I snuggled in against Young Man, too. Sometime in the middle of the night, I felt scratches on my leg and I grumpily thought "Young Man needs to trim his nails. I'll tell him about it in the morning." When the scratching didn't cease, I turned over to give him a shove so he would quit rubbing my leg with his claws, the only trouble was, he had his back to me. I laid my groggy head back down, trying to figure out what in the world was scratching my leg. If wasn't Young Man, then it must be . . . A CRITTER!!!!!!!
I screamed, threw the blankets one way, pushed Young Man out of the bed the other way and I jumped out just in time to see the poor cat splat against the wall, slide down and race from the room.
I didn't see the cat for another two days!
On the second day, after I had been out with the kids, we entered our apartment and I got another surprise. The stray jumped from the back of a chair that was close to the front door onto my shoulder. I was successful in stifling another scream and stayed still. The kids laughed and hooted and hollared as they watched the cat turn a circle (how, I don't know) and settle down around my neck.
Most kids are very good at asking parents who people are that the parents cannot possibly know - for example, the lady in the grocery store that neither one of you has ever laid eyes on. I suppose it's the 'Mommy and Daddy know everything' syndrome that most kids outgrow by the time they're three. Anyway, my stock answer to this tiresome question was always "George". It seemed to satisfy them.
So, when the kids asked me what the stray's name was after she landed on my shoulder, I simply answered, "George". And she never left our warm circle until her death many years later.
We used to, when Old Man was Young Man, and the kids were little and all, live in an apartment complex that was 3 stories high, no elevater and each apartment opened out into a common stairwell. Two apartments shared each landing and the stairwell, although not heated, was closed to the elements. Which, at this time of year was good because the city in which we lived was being strangeld by a blizzard, much as the country was a day or two ago.
In the middle of this frightful blizzard, I heard a child crying and it seemed to be coming from the stairwell. After checking to make sure my own children were ok, I went looking for who could possibly be making that noise, only to find a half-starved, almost frozen tabby whose meows sounded like the baby I thought I heard. I knew no one in the stairwell owned a cat such as this, so I picked her up and brought into my apartment. Of course, the kids were very happy to have a pet and it was useless to explain that we didn't 'have' a pet, we had to find the owner and send the cat home.
The poor cat was so frightened, she ran under the first piece of furniture she could find . . . and stayed there for the next 48 hours. At least she was quiet. I slid a bowl of water under the couch, then began calling people. I had a friend who lived in the next building and she had a cat just like this one. I dialed her number and realized the futility as I looked out of my window over to her apartment and saw the cat in question sitting on the window ledge. But, she gave me some good advice about who I should call within the city. I had no idea, we didn't have animals, hadn't had an animal since we moved to this town. By the end of the day, my hopes had dwindled about finding the owner very quickly. This was not good. Not only did I not have any cat supplies, but the kids were getting more and more excited about having a pet, even if the pet stayed hidden under the couch.
My neighbor upstairs was adopted by a cat, so I traipsed up the stairs to see if she could help me out. She was only too glad, she said she heard the yowling and didn't want to be the rescuer because she didn't know how her cat would handle a stranger. She gave me some kitten chow and a little litter, I'd have to get a pan from elsewhere. A boxlid would do, I decided. Line it with a plastic trash bag, it would do just fine for 24 hours. I wasn't going to have the cat that long.
The next morning the cat had hidden herself under the buffet in the dining room where I had put water, food and the litter box. Now, Dear Reader, please don't get upset about kitty litter being in the dining room. It was the only place I had that I could put these things and the cat stay 'hidden' away from the kids. I felt I had a better than average chance of the cat using the pan rather than the floor or rug. And remember, the cat was only going to be with us a day or two . . .
Which turned into 3 or 4 and the cat still would not come out of hiding. It was drinking water, eating food and using the litter boxlid (which I had to change out everyday), but it would not leave its home under the buffet. The blizzard had let up some by now, but it was still frightfully cold outside. I had considered putting it back outside so that it could find its own way home as I was not having much luck. But the kids pleaded with me. I couldn't put the poor kitty out.
About the fourth night of the cat not coming out, I was determined to find its owners the next day or take it to the pound. I just couldn't take cleaning the litter boxlid of an invisible cat. I went to bed, snuggled under a sheet, 2 blankets, a quilt, and a bedspread. I was cold. And I snuggled in against Young Man, too. Sometime in the middle of the night, I felt scratches on my leg and I grumpily thought "Young Man needs to trim his nails. I'll tell him about it in the morning." When the scratching didn't cease, I turned over to give him a shove so he would quit rubbing my leg with his claws, the only trouble was, he had his back to me. I laid my groggy head back down, trying to figure out what in the world was scratching my leg. If wasn't Young Man, then it must be . . . A CRITTER!!!!!!!
I screamed, threw the blankets one way, pushed Young Man out of the bed the other way and I jumped out just in time to see the poor cat splat against the wall, slide down and race from the room.
I didn't see the cat for another two days!
On the second day, after I had been out with the kids, we entered our apartment and I got another surprise. The stray jumped from the back of a chair that was close to the front door onto my shoulder. I was successful in stifling another scream and stayed still. The kids laughed and hooted and hollared as they watched the cat turn a circle (how, I don't know) and settle down around my neck.
Most kids are very good at asking parents who people are that the parents cannot possibly know - for example, the lady in the grocery store that neither one of you has ever laid eyes on. I suppose it's the 'Mommy and Daddy know everything' syndrome that most kids outgrow by the time they're three. Anyway, my stock answer to this tiresome question was always "George". It seemed to satisfy them.
So, when the kids asked me what the stray's name was after she landed on my shoulder, I simply answered, "George". And she never left our warm circle until her death many years later.
Awwwwww That's a great story... I enjoyed reading it... Sally
ReplyDeleteI am still laughing.
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