The
maintenance man had watched in horror as a car sped through the parking lot and three small kittens
were thrown out the car door.
Laying
stunned on the pavement one was immediately rescued by
the kindly maintenance man. After many frantic attempts, the second was finally
caught a few weeks later and adopted by another resident. But no one could get
near, much less catch, the third kitten. As all ferals do she grew more wild and
wary each passing day.
For
almost five months she struggled to survive in an apartment complex bordering a
wild greenbelt on the edges of Seattle.
She escaped the teeth and claws of
raccoons, opossums and the occasional cougar. She hid from the thundering hooves
of large deer and slept on the 3rd story roofline. I resided in one
of those 3rd floor apartments, completely unaware of her presence above.
The
cool weather of fall had come and my patio gardens were looking rather sad. As I tended
my outdoor jungle a tiny tiger tabby climbed three flights of stairs to wrap
around my ankles. Her aristocratic face and huge eyes miraculously enraptured
me, the lover of
vicious dogs.
After a few kind words and a stroke or two I retreated to indoor
safety, but a soft purring sound began drifting through my windows, tugging at
my hardened heartstrings.
And so she gained entry.
Knowing
the battle to be won, Sheba settled in and quickly proceeded to win my heart. We curled
up on the sofa in front of a roaring fire and stayed there most of the
weekend. She was 6 or 7 months old, but a rough life and meager diet
had left her the size of a healthy 2 month old kitten. So small she fit inside
the large pockets of my sweater, she was content to be pressed close to me for
days. I carried her everywhere with
me, ieven to the bathroom.
By
Monday our physical and emotional states had dramatically improved and I knew
she had for some odd reason chosen me.
Me,
the cat hater and lover of killer dogs. Recently I’d quit my job and begun
freelancing. The doctors had me on a steady diet of anti-depressants and
the
drugs weren't working. .The
outside world was closing in. Sheba and I were in fragile states and
we both seemed to know it.
My
antique china bowls mysteriously appeared on the kitchen floor. Sheba seemed to
deserve better than old Tupperware. She began receiving offerings of gourmet kitten
food and bottled water.
My
unstructured life had obtained a purpose. A few days later I began sinking
more deeply into debt. I slowly cruised home
in
my beloved black sports car
with a six foot climbing
cat tower hanging precariously out the back. After a full day spent rearranging the
indoor trees, Sheba's tower snuggled against the sliding doors with a superb view of
the mountains and the bird feeders across the back patio. She continued to lavish gentle
affection on me.
Mysteriously
my mental health began to improve. I was experiencing the joy
of life on a daily basis.
However, my
friends and family were very concerned and questioned what they saw as an
impaired mental state. The detester of cats, the obsessive compulsive queen of
an orderly house, the owner of a gothic black wardrobe, the caretaker of an
indoor jungle with a cat???
Had
I stopped taking my medications? Was I in menopause? Or perhaps a radical
mid-life crisis had occurred? Concern
creased their brows. This was totally against my character. Discussing
Sheba as if she were my small child only worsened the matter.
A
radical shift in my personality continues to occur. As plants occasionally
tumble off shelves and kitten hair clings to my black clothes, love tempers my
responses. More tolerant of mistakes, happier with myself, and more patient with
the fumbling of others, Sheba is making me more human.
Yes,
I have become one of the dreaded cat people.
