Oh, yes. Many have come before:
Entertaining Angels: Life Comes Full Circle Edition (AKA the “Little Chick Chick Edition)
And the one that started it all
Which brings me to the most recent, and very modest encounter:
So. There I was, out for a walk. Pretty much the same walk I describe in the above-mentioned post in which I discovered the two chickens.
This time, however, it was a different sort of creature, down there at the “T” junction, at the bottom of my little country road, where I usually turn left to follow alongside the creek and see what the day’s arboreal, land-based, and aquatic wildlife are doing. A small creature. I saw the gray and white and thought, at first, that someone had dumped a domestic rabbit (always a terrible idea). But–a bit closer–and I saw what appeared to be a young cat. Crying and crying. It ran into the woods. And then came back to me and ran off again. So I followed it for a bit thinking, “Oh, Lord, I hope it’s not leading me to a nest of kittens.”
But then it ran off. Still crying.
So I sat on a convenient tree stump and waited.
Eventually, I felt a small head rubbing against my leg. There it was. Quiet at last.
I touched it. Very thin. Bedraggled (it’s been freezing/sleeting/snowing and raining here for days). Very friendly. So I picked it up. Very loving. Obviously used to people. Either strayed or dumped. Very much lost.
Young. Seemed to be female. No evidence on her belly that she’d been nursing kittens (thank heaven). Probably about “first heat” age. Perhaps she ran off. Perhaps she was dumped. (That happens a lot, when young, unspayed female cats reach that age). Either way, it’s unlikely I’ll discover her owner, and if I leave her here she’ll become coyote bait.
So, walk her home.
Now, this is where she distinguished herself. My experience with stray cats has been that most of them–even fairly civilized ones–loathe being picked up, and especially loathe it when you pick them up and start walking along. She didn’t mind at all. In fact, by the time I actually got home with her, my arm was aching and I was exhausted, but she was happy as a clam. No scratching, no tantrums, hissing or spitting. Just snuggling and purring. (I pass over the fact that she’d obviously been luxuriating in fields of poison ivy and that I now have a severe case of same all over hands and neck….)
At the moment I have five cats. All but Psymon are quite elderly. One–my late friend’s cat–has cancer. She’s either not long for this world (likely), or (less likely) she’s going to outlive us all.
Whatever. Mother Nature, as is well known, abhors a vacuum. And–as ever–she is doing her best to replenish the supply.
And so, after some reasonable efforts to find out where she might have come from, and a vet visit to see if she’s fairly healthy (she is, is perhaps eight to ten months old, shows no signs of pregnancy, and is headed for spaying on Friday), I present the newest member of the establishment, Clowdee:
She’s had a modest accommodation upgrade–following tick removal, a vet visit, and 48 hours with a Ceresto collar on–in that her crate has been moved into the mudroom. As you can see, Psymon is already taking charge and psticking his nose in:
Somehow, we’ll make room. I’ve always believed that love is a gas which expands to fill the space available to it, rather than a rationed solid which has to be cut into ever thinner slices as more “takers” show up. IMHO, this applies universally, no matter where there are two or four-legged creatures under consideration.)
Stay tuned for updates.