I promised you in a March, 2014 blog (Here We Go Again), that I was perfectly happy with my 3 dogs and 2 cats. No way was I going to adopt another 4-legged creature anytime soon.
You see, I foster “challenging” cats in an attempt to make them adoptable. These felines are what I call conflicted. I think that sounds so much nicer than psycho, don’t you? Turns out cats are just like people in how they can be a tad unbalanced.
But what I’ve learned fostering cats that supposedly don’t use their litter box, spray and mark around the house, or seemingly despise most humans, is that it’s usually not the cat that’s the problem.
You guessed it. These cats were simply placed in the wrong home for their temperament or personality. Hey, I’d probably pee outside my litter box too if a 2-year-old was pulling my tail and my guardian only changed my litter box once a month. Get me outta there.
My latest foster, Tippi, is a pistol of a torbie (tortoiseshell and tabby). She’s also a chronically sick cat that hasn’t responded to treatment. Plain and simple, she’s unadoptable. Having been a feral rescue, she was now too friendly to put back under the grocery store where I trapped her. What to do, what to do…
You guessed it again. Tippi is now the newest addition to my animal family. She’s already bonded with my other pets and more importantly, with me. Until she can no longer tolerate me, which, as it turns out, is quite often. Being a torbie, attitude sort of comes with the package. For instance, one minute Tippi’s contentedly sleeping across my neck and moments later she’s slapping me in the face. Apparently she finds my blinking annoying.
Tippi was blessed with personality. She shadows me like I’m covered with roasted chicken stuffed with tuna fish then dipped in gravy. She grooms my dogs instead of the other way around, knocks over the same vase every couple days, hides in my kitchen cupboards so I have to search for her, and eats breakfast like it’s her last meal on earth. Then she helps Oliver, Buddy and Savannah finish theirs.
Since I wrote that blog over a year ago, I’ve also brought Buddy into the fold — the neighborhood cat whose guardians don’t allow him inside. The poor guy is deaf now and at least 20 years old. So I snatched him and brought him inside with us. You would have done the same, right?
So my menagerie now consists of 4 felines, 3 dogs and a steady supply of conflicted foster cats. Now don’t get me wrong; I have no intention of adopting more 4-legged creatures. Seven is my absolute limit.
But I do have to say, I miss sitting down without somebody jumping into my lap. Most of all I miss sleeping. That’s because at least 5 of them end up on my king-size bed during the night, disturbing any chance for anything but fitful slumber. You might ask, do they bother to spread out and give me room? Do I kick them off the bed? Ha! What silly questions.
Lying there, I could pass for a circus contortionist. My legs and arms are bent in awkward positions to accommodate each animal curling into, onto or around one of my body parts. And here I thought menopause was the reason I no longer sleep.
Yes, I do admit, it’s an animal house around here. Gone are the days of a spotless home (was it ever?), 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep (ahh, those were the days) and a chance for any alone time (even in the bathroom).
But I have to admit, I wouldn’t have it any other way.