We never wanted a cat

Jane Pitcher describes how a little short-tailed calico adopted a family.

We heard them first. They were invisible but for some fleeting, shadowy movements along the garden wall and the trembling blossoms on the bougainvillea. Yet their piercing voices, loudly mewing, carried across the garden and into the house. After several days of listening to their music, we finally spied them: little kitten shapes, each torso hardly larger than a pan de sal bun, well camouflaged by the foliage on the top of the wall. There were three of them: a long-tailed ginger tom and a calico female, trailed by another short-tailed calico. There was no sign of a mother, but the kittens were well developed; they looked healthy and were very active. We assumed they were out exploring while mama was away hunting.

Over the next few months, our two dear dogs died: one of old age, one of a terminal disease. We decided that this was not the time to invite another dog into our lives. We were still too heartsore, though we knew that, in time, we’d be ready to fall in love with another canine pal (or two!). We never considered a cat and we had almost forgotten about the kittens until we heard sounds on the roof. Thumps, pattering and vague scrapings hinted of a presence. We hoped it wasn’t rats. Then they appeared: a fully-grown young ginger tom and a pretty short-tailed calico. The house next door had recently become vacant, so we assumed that these two had been abandoned.

A tropical beauty

Experts always say that if you don’t want to adopt an animal (remember, we had dogspace in our hearts, not catspace) you shouldn’t name it. We named him Henry and her Sharon – the name for the hibiscus flower growing in the garden and described as “a tropical beauty” on About.com. Over the following months, we would provide food for the two cats. Sharon became quite tame, but shy Henry kept his distance. Occasionally they were joined by a sturdy, muscular grey tom. We named him Security, for obvious reasons and because of his skills at repelling unwelcome cats.

As soon as Sharon became tame enough to approach, we decided she should be spayed to avoid unwanted, multiple litters (she had two boyfriends, right?). It was the least we could do for her. We trapped her in a baited, humane cage-trap and she escaped from it five minutes later. We trapped her again – she’s rather greedy – and off she went for her spay operation, with the help of the CARA* organization. A young, healthy cat, she recovered fast and was soon out and about, leaping from the mango tree to the roof, climbing along the Christmas lights (fortunately not turned on) round the yard, bawling for food outside the kitchen and allowing us to stroke her occasionally. Henry simply disappeared, as did Security – maybe they found a new girlfriend, more receptive to their advances.

Sunning themselves in parallel

A few weeks later, we adopted our dog and our animal efforts focused on rehabilitating him from a cruel start in life. Meanwhile, Sharon continued to make the mango tree and the roof her home and to beg (and receive) food from our kitchen door. We would see Sharon and the dog lying in the sunshine, neither sure who was the dominant creature, relaxing and sunning themselves in parallel.

And then came the house move. We packed up our stuff, moved the furniture, and paid final bills. We connected up the new utilities, unwrapped the china, introduced the dog to his new surroundings. But what about Sharon? She wasn’t really a pet and anyway, we’re DOG people. We don’t do cats, we don’t know anything about cats, and we’re not sure how much we even like cats. We decided she would have to fend for herself (for about five minutes).

We let her free

She travelled with us in a cat carrier; protesting vocally and furiously every step of the way. She was even angrier about the trip to the vet for her vaccinations. She spent about ten days in a very large cage in our kitchen, using a litter tray and becoming a little less indignant (well, the kitchen is the food place) as the days drifted by. Finally, in trepidation we let her free. Would she run off, fight neighboring cats, try to find her old haunts or get injured on the road? She wandered round the yard and jumped up at the window, yowling for breakfast. She was home. She was ours.

Today Sharon rules the household from her vantage point atop the refrigerator. She tells us when it’s breakfast or supper time. She bullies the dog (who, although three times her size, is terrified of her hiss and spit) and fiercely guards the kitchen so that he can’t enter if she’s anywhere near the doorway. She reigns supreme on the lanai just daring another cat to enter her territory. She lies in wait under the dining table, ready to dart out like a conger eel as the poor dog scuttles past, sending him leaping and scrabbling for safety. She is stunningly beautiful, smart as paint and she knows it. We never wanted a cat: our tropical beauty has adopted us.

** Jane Pitcher is a writer and communications specialist who has lived in eight countries on three continents. Her pets relocate with her whenever she moves.