So often in our feral cat rescue (Marin Friends of Ferals) it feels like we’re barely making a dent in controlling breeding. You think rabbits and mice are prolific baby-makers? Well, unaltered felines are like polygamists with 5 kids per wife, or maybe the Duggar family (19 Kids and Counting). They have no Off switch.
But the difference with cats is that they can’t control their mating and subsequent reproducing. No, I’m afraid this one’s on us. People refuse to spay and neuter pets for many reasons: they believe it will make the animal lazy and fat (false); some are simply against birth control; others just can’t be bothered. You name it, I’ve heard it.
To seamlessly segue from last week to this, Loretta and I ultimately accomplished our goal of giving cat beds to Slinky, who lives under a bridge at a local college and also to Bridget, who lives under another bridge on campus. Granted, that doesn’t sound exciting. But when you realize these two have spent 13 years living in dirt under their respective bridges, offering them their first beds was a big deal. (To us at least!)
Now don’t get me wrong; even though college administrators wish the cats, and we who feed them, would disappear, what they fail to recognize is the gumption of our feral rescue volunteers. These are no wussies. We hold our own when faced with unreasonable requests, like allowing elderly ferals to starve.
When Loretta and I decided it was way overdue that we provide our two ferals a bed, did we fear arrest? Nah. Call us crazy…those cats were getting a bed come hell or high water. And let me tell you, the water was high. (The creek under the bridges was rushing like a river after a recent storm.) So anyway, we waited for the cloak of darkness before pulling off the cat bed caper. Continue reading →
Now don’t get me wrong. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but to those who know me, it’s practically a miracle. You see, I haven’t been to the Big House in a couple years.I used to be one of those holiday church-goers. You know the type; we attend for Christmas and Easter. Then it got to where I only appeared for weddings and funerals. But I’m relatively certain last Sunday wasn’t a holy holiday and nobody I know died or got hitched. Continue reading →
Today I was thinking about my late business partner, Susan, while I trapped feral cats on a 50 acre water buffalo farm where they produce mozzarella in rural Marin County. Talk about farm fresh. As you’ve probably guessed, it’s uniqueness is evident. I mean, seriously, it’s where the buffalo roam. (And, I’m guessing, where the deer and the antelope play.)
Anywhere rural is bound to have feral cats. Like being in one of those revolving doors at fancy hotels, they tend to come and go. But not before we ensure they stop having kittens. Still, that’s a tall order to fill when, if we miss 2 cats of the opposite sex, well, there ya go.
So here’s the situation. It’s 8:00 p.m. on Saturday night. I just spent the day cleaning my garage. Loads of fun. I’m grimy, dusty and full of chili because after I spent the day cleaning my garage I made a pot of veggie chili. Then I made macaroni noodles to put the chili on because that’s how my ex’s family did it in Kansas City. So since 1982, when we married, that’s how I’ve eaten it and now I can’t eat naked chili.
Anyway, now I’m stuffed. I also fed my animal crew and my foster cat, all of whom I assume are stuffed as well. My foster cat is nameless because I don’t permanently name them until I know they’ll be adoptable. I foster feral kittens and semi-feral cats. For some reason it’s harder for me to have to relocate them to outdoor homes (if they’re too feral to be adopted) after I’ve named them. Weird, huh?
So when I enter the room in which I’m housing a big orange tabby female, I say ‘Hey Boo Boo.” No reaction. Sometimes I say, “Hey Monkey.” But again, no response. I’ll try on a bunch of names during the time I’m fostering but once I realize that cat or kitten will be adoptable, a name will suddenly hit me and that’s the one that sticks.