Cat Haters' Club: Part II

If you read my post yesterday, I am sure you have surmised that I am a cat hater. But I am here to proclaim that I have officially canceled my membership, the one in my heart, as I would have never joined a real cat haters' club. While I had a strong dislike for cats, I wasn't alone. There are many others, I am sure, that don't care for cats, given the number of members in the so-called clubs I linked to yesterday. There are even some famous people that had a great aversion to cats:

Dwight Eisenhower's loathing for cats was so great that he gave his staff orders to shoot any cat seen wandering on the grounds of his residence. One of Johannes Brahm's favorite forms of relaxation was to sit at an open window and attempt to kill neighbourhood cats with a bow and arrow. Napoleon Bonaparte was once found sweating with fear and lunging wildly with his sword at the tapestry-covered walls, all in fear of a small kitten. Noah Webster described the cat as a "deceitful animal and when enraged, extremely spiteful."

While I would have never sunk to the outrageous activities of the above mentioned haters, the dislike of cats was present for close to half a century, with varying degrees of intensity. Although I may not be quite ready to claim intense love at this time, I have moved closer to the realm of the cat lovers below.

St. Francis of Assisi, one of my personal favorites, according to an Italian legend, was saved from a plague of mice by a cat which sprang miraculously out of his sleeve. Sir Winston Churchill's cat, Jock, shared his master's bed and table, and he refused to start eating until his cat was present at the table. Ernest Hemingway shared his Key West home with more than thirty cats. Florence Nightingale owned more than sixty cats in her lifetime and often complained of mysterious "stains" on her paperwork. Mark Twain kept eleven cats at his farm in Connecticut. His daughter, Susy once remarked, "The difference between Papa and Mamma is, that Mamma loves morals and Papa loves cats."

The information on famous cat lovers and haters, including many more examples, is found here. By the way, it seems there are more lovers than haters.

How did this change of heart come about? Let's just say he slinked his way in! He is was a stray cat that had been hanging out in the neighborhood. I'd first heard of his existence from my husband, who shared tales of the pursuit of said cat by one of my dachshunds. Another stray cat in the neighborhood. No big deal, and his existence was quickly filed in the recesses of my brain. It was my daughter and her boyfriend who first befriended the cat. Yes, this is the same daughter who was attacked by the neighbor's cat years ago and has spent her lifetime in loathing of cats. Her boyfriend, however, has always been a cat lover. Oh, the things we do for love.

It played out something like this:

Cat comes slinking to the front yard where boyfriend and daughter are sitting on a bench. He rubs by their legs and "Meows." They notice he is very thin. My daughter sneaks a can of tuna from the cupboard, as well as a dish of water. She does this a couple times.

"You know the cat isn't going to leave if you keep doing that," I say when I first catch her in the act.

"He's hungry. Look how thin he is. You know he isn't going anwhere, anyway. He just lives in the sheds out back, " says she.

I respond: "I know. There are always cats out there. It's probably the same one LuLu was chasing." After a short discussion about the merits of helping the cat, my response was something like: " Well, fine, I don't want him to starve, but don't even think about bringing him in the house. I don't like cats and I certainly don't want one in the house. Besides, the dogs would rip it apart."

"Don't tell dad. He told us not to feed him. He doesn't want a cat around," she replies.

"Well, we can't let it starve. That would be inhumane, and I will tell him so," I reply.

Over the next couple days, the cat takes over the bench, and makes himself at home. He is lying on the steps when I return from work, and purring at every entrance to our home. "Please bring me in," he seems to say. A few times, he is almost able to slither by me as I open the door, but I kindly shoo him out just in the nick of time. I watch daily as he attaches to my daughter and her boyfriend, and they to him. When he rubs up against my legs one day, this stodgy old cat miser softens a little more.

We have determined he was once a pet, even though he has no identification. He is declawed and we think neutered, that is if he is really a boy. It's kind of hard to tell with this cat when it won't sit still when you try to check its genitals.

I can't believe my heart has melted toward a cat. He is a handsome creature, and mostly gentle, though he doesn't like to be fussed over too much. Only a couple days after he came around, I went out and bought him cat food, as the tuna stockpile was withering. My daughter tried to "hide" said food from her dad, afraid of his reaction to their sneaky feedings. I told her not to bother hiding it and I told him, in no uncertain terms, I would not take part in allowing a cat to starve. It seemed a cat, once used to being indoors and taken care of, I assume, with no claws, would be unable to procure enough food to stay healthy. My husband knows me well enough to know I couldn't ignore a creature in need. He did protest any future plans of allowing him to move in. I had still not let him move in when I bought the food. I reasoned with my daughter about all the things I didn't like about cats (shedding hair, litter boxes, etc.). I told her we also needed to make sure someone isn't missing it.

We have not found an owner. We've checked local lost and found ads and asked around the neighborhood. Did his previous owners know he was gone? Are they missing him or was he abandoned? There is no identification to go by. Were they tired of him and just let it go? Could they not afford to feed and care for him any longer? My husband suggested taking him to the shelter, but it is so overloaded with cats, I fear surrendering him to a shelter might be assigning death to him. So, unless an owner is found, my daughter has "adopted" him, agreeing to pay all further costs of ownership, including a visit to the vet to make sure he is healthy and he is really a he.

Recently, it started to get chilly at night. A decision had to be made. The cat moved in and now lives in the basement. My husband has warmed to him, just as I have. The dogs have not warmed to him, and we have to careful that they don't slip downstairs to get after him. The plan is to introduce them in very small increments, so as not to overwhelm the dogs or the cat.

The cat has not been given an official name. They were toying arond with the name Warren, after some rock band singer, which led me to suggest a middle name of Peace. They rolled their eyes and groaned when I explained my reasoning, but I like it. Warren Peace. It has a nice ring to it and it relates quite handily to my half century of dealing with cats:

War 'n' Peace.