Tilly
is a mostly Siamese semi-feral cat who was abandoned at my stables. I worried
that the coyotes, owls and bobcats viewed her as an hors d’oeuvre. I was on a mission to capture and save her.
That
involved going to the LA Department of Animal Services: i.e. the pound. It’s a place I avoid at all costs as I have a disease
known as a suckerous for doguses in cages. But I pulled on my big girl boots and
went. After tons of paperwork -in LA you
can walk onto any street corner, hand over ten bucks and pick up a gun but you
need a permit to rent a cat trap -- I was allowed to walk away with a Have-a-Heart trap.
The
trap had immediate results. At daybreak the next morning I received a phone
call from the stable instructing me to ‘come get your G**D**M screeching cat.’
We went
directly to the vet to get Tilly flea dipped, inoculated and spayed. Except,
she didn’t need spaying. Apparently she
had been neutered in a feral cat program. The ear I thought had been torn in a
cat fight was actually notched, which is how these program track which cats
have been neutered. And Tilly was not entirely feral. At the vet, she sat quietly purring in my lap.
I
installed her in my den with a spanking new litter box and food (mmmm Fancy
Feast) and water. For a few days she was thrilled, and soon came out to get
patted, admired and stuffed with expensive cat food. She hid under the couch
whenever the dogs approached, but that seemed wise—Murray the Dane is loud and
fearful of cats, and the Poppy is just, well, a Brittany.
Soon we
all reached a compromise. Tilly would appear from under the couch to be
scratched and adored. When I left her door open , the dogs would stay out of
her room in a huff. If they came in, she’d hide. When they were asleep in the
other room, she’d carefully explore the house.
She did show a peculiar interest in sitting in the fireplace. All in all
not a perfect situation, but livable. Until a workman accidently let her out.
I was
devastated. I called her and called her: nada. I tacked fliers on every phone
pole and slipped notes into all of my neighbors’ mailboxes. I searched
everyone’s back yards. No Tilly.
At 11PM
one of my neighbors had called to say Tilly was two doors down from my house
hanging at an abandoned home. I flew out the door in my best flannel pjs, one
hand clutching a flashlight and the other the cat trap. Tilly sat on a wall and
howled at me. As I left to go home she was circling the trap warily.
An hour
later I went back to check. There was a cat in the trap. It just wasn’t the
right one. My next-door neighbor’s enormous furious tabby obviously couldn’t
resist the smell of Seafood Delight. He was so huge it wasn’t easy for him to
turn around get out when I opened the door. I reset the trap and stomped home.
At
sunup I checked the trap. Success! I had a brief moment of superiority. I celebrated far too soon.
As Tilly was terrified she hissed
at me all the way home. But once I opened the cage in the den, she ran over for
a cuddle before heading for breakfast and the litter box.
I was brushing my teeth when I heard a clink.
With some trepidation I checked under the couch. No Tilly. The damn cat was
gone. Again.
Now I
was pissed. This cat was treating me like a bed and breakfast. Or more
accurately, a potty and breakfast. She didn’t stick around long enough to
sleep.
That
evening I returned to her abandoned house and called and called. Nothing. I
called around my house. No cat. But a few hours later the dogs started barking
and trying to climb into the fireplace. It
finally dawned on me that the flue was broken and she was using the chimney as
her own personal Holland tunnel. And was now attempting to return. Outside I
trained my flashlight beam on a Tilly-sized lump on the roof. I called her and
she turned her back to me. If a cat
could give the finger, I was getting it.
Inside
the house I set up a complicated chute leading from the fireplace directly into
the cat trap. I was proud of myself—it was a work of art. I locked myself and
the dogs in my room convinced I had outsmarted Tilly. Ha! Take that smarty cat.
Before
I retired for the night I checked on her.
She wasn’t in the trap but when I called she answered and it seemed
awfully loud and close for a cat in the chimney or on the roof. I followed the
yowls. Directly into her room where she was sitting on the couch demanding
dinner. Loudly. She had already used her litter box of course
After that
I put a baby gate in front of the fireplace. Eventually I am smarter than a
feral cat.
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