No Good Deed. . . .

The Stephen King movie, Cujo, was on last night, reminding me that I had a blog post to write.

          It's been a year since the best cat in recorded history, Satchel, finally curled up in that sunshiny nap spot in the sky. We've had a succession of cats since 1980, and in spite of my husband’s best efforts, I've been getting twitchy without a daily dose of fur and adoration.

          We dug out the tried and true cat carrier and headed for the animal shelter.

          Not surprisingly, there were big cats and little cats, gray cats and orange cats, polydactyl cats, shy cats and friendly cats. There was a whole room for what the shelter called “spirit” cats - a term I’d never heard before for feral cats, which around here are often adopted as barn cats.

          The kittens were as adorable as kittens always are, and while we’ve always taken home the starter models, we were won over by a beautiful three- year-old tuxedo (black body, white chest) who had been surrendered the day before. The background on his cage – “owner had to move to nursing home” – told us we were doing a good thing. 

          We reached into the cage and patted him; we’ve had cuddly cats before, but with this guy our hands disappeared into depths of soft, black fur. He rubbed his head against the cage and looked winsomely into our eyes. Paperwork and payment and then we were on our way home, filled with the warmth of rescuers.

          We brought the cage into my office, closed the doors, and opened his carrier. Out he came, unafraid, and he immediately ran to the window and stood on his hind legs to look out. His head was above the windowsill. This was One Big Cat. We were thrilled; his tail was long and bushy, his feet the size of a snow leopard’s with tufts of fur between the toes. Somehow we had scored a Main Coon cat.

          Dr. Google gave us more information: Main Coons are independent, smart, and easy-going. Perfect. We opened the office door and gave him the run of the house.

          That was the zenith of our weekend. It went downhill from there. 

          When he wasn’t hiding in the basement, he was loping through the house like a timber wolf, searching for a way out. We were allowed to pat him, but then off he’d go again – window, door, window, door. 

          Sunday morning I shuffled downstairs in jammies and robe. Just like the good old days, there was a cat, rubbing against me, waiting to be fed. I patted him and took out a clean dish and can of food. I turned to put his breakfast down, and suddenly I had thirteen pounds of angry cat attached to my left leg. 
 
 He looked up at me with murder in his eyes, and tore out of the room. I put his food down and he trotted back in, tail in the air, all smiles.  

          From that point on, every time he saw me he hissed. Heart pounding, I would clear my throat before entering a room so I wouldn’t startle him.  For some reason, though, my husband was still in the cat’s good graces but that eroded over time, too. By the third day, food, cat, and litter box went into the basement. Not helpful, however, we discovered, when we needed to lure him out of the ceiling to put him back in the carrier. 

          Yes, back to the shelter we went, our tails between our legs. I felt like the lowest life form ever, but I can’t live like Peter Sellers in those old Pink Panther movies, wondering if Cato is lurking just around the corner.