A Love Story

I used to be a complainer. My mother was, too. Around my teen years, my father sat me down. He said, “I love your mother, but she complains. She can’t help it. I want you to live by this creed, though. Don’t complain about something unless you’re willing to lead the charge to fix it.” I’m paraphrasing, but that was the gist of the conversation. Complain away, provided you have a solution in mind. Otherwise, shush.

I’m never going to be the person who can pull a Bible verse out of the old back pocket, but I’m trying to learn. There’s a verse in Numbers. The exact details escape me. Basically, the people of Israel complained so much that God sent poisonous snakes down to bite and kill some of the complainers. I’d give anything to have known this while my father was still alive. I can hear his whistling “s” and the gentle way he would laugh when he was really tickled. He’d have loved it. However, this is a column about how I’m not complaining. I promise. It may seem like I am, though. See, something happened today. It hurt my heart. Even though I don’t know how to fix it, I want so badly to tell you. So, let me.

Today I surrendered two tiny orange kittens to our city animal shelter. I didn’t want it to happen this way. This is the fifth litter from the same feral momma cat that I’ve rescued. There was the litter with the one named Georgie. There was the litter of all calico girls. There was the litter of mostly female orange cats, so rare. There was the litter of mostly oranges, some with long hair and tails like squirrels. Recently, there was a new litter of all orange kittens, so alike in their features they were hard to count from the front door. Out of the seven kittens, we caught five and rehomed three. Ordinarily, my easily broken rescue heart would hold onto the last two as long as finding a new home takes. This time, a week-long trip means they must go elsewhere. I made calls. I made posts. I made reels. Alas, there were no takers.

This is the first time in 57 years I’ve surrendered an animal to a municipality. It felt dehumanizing, frankly. Firstly, it took over an hour, yet I was the only one there. The computer was slow. The computer wasn’t working. The chip scanner wasn’t working. More on that later. The printer wasn’t working. I explained my story. Someone else walked into the room. “She’s here to surrender her cats.” Me: n-n-n-no, it’s not like that. I rescued them, but I can’t keep them indefinitely because I’m going to be out of town for nine days and I don’t have anyone to care for them. At different times within this hour, two other people would enter the room. Again, the statement of me not wanting the kittens would be stated. Again, I would attempt to defend myself.

“How old are they,” the person asked me. 7-8 weeks was my answer. At least four other times, the question of age came up. My answers were identical. Yet, the paperwork I was asked to sign said 9 weeks. Next came scanning for a chip, because “sometimes people steal animals, or they wander off.” The part where I told them I’d watched the pregnant, feral cat and marked the day she gave birth so I could begin rescue plans was forgotten. One person, the one assigned to readying the enclosure for my sweet orange boys, repetitively asked me if they would bite. I looked back, incredulously, as I was holding one of the purring, sleeping kittens in my arms. “No, they are socialized. They are sweet. They are scared, but clearly don’t bite.” The person seemed reluctant to place them in the enclosure, so I did.

Finally, many questions answered, and many papers signed, I was getting ready to leave. I asked for advice for the horrific feral cat issue plaguing downtown Forney. I was told that, unfortunately, the city has no resources available for me. “Okay,” I said, “I’m happy to do the hard work myself. If I have a feral cat in a live trap…” The person stopped me. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, if you catch and animal in a trap and you manage to injure the animal, you could face jail time. We don’t recommend that.” They went on to say that long ago, there was a local group that would trap colonies, spay and neuter them, and return them to their neighborhoods. They aren’t around anymore. We stood in that awkward pause, the baby kittens that don’t belong to me crying from their new enclosure because I’m all they know and the one with no solutions staring back at me. I could feel the tears pricking the backs of my eyes, because that’s the way I respond to any intense emotion. As I left the shelter, one hand on the cat carrier and the other hand inhaling the smells of “my” babies from the blanket they’ve used since moving into my guest bath, I thought again of my father and wondered what he would think of my visit with the cat intake people. They need a good lecture from Ted Stilwell. Don’t we all.