Mama Cat
Submitted by Rick VanderLugt
Over five years ago, the day I began my job at a freight yard in San Leandro, I learned from my co-workers that a cat and kittens were living in the crawl space beneath our double-wide office trailer. I began feeding the cats right away. The mother was a smallish tortie who was tame enough to allow people within ten or fifteen feet before bolting away. Without giving it much thought, we started calling her “Mama Cat,” and the name stuck. Her two young orange tabby boys were often visible napping in a shaft of afternoon sun under the trailer.
It was only my second close encounter with feral cats. Luckily I had learned about Fix Our Ferals years earlier, so I knew how to proceed. I bought a trap and introduced it onto the scene with the door wired open. I gradually moved the food closer to it and finally into the trap. Before long all three cats were fearlessly walking in to eat. One Monday I made an appointment with a local vet to spay the mom and laid plans to trap them all over the weekend. It was September 10, 2001, a date burned into memory by the horror of the following day. As the aftermath of the terrorist attacks played out I was grateful to be focused on a mission of goodwill toward other creatures.
All went according to plan. I trapped the two kittens and transferred them to a kennel in my bathroom, hoping to socialize them. (One turned out to be relatively docile and was eventually accepted into the EBSPCA adoption program; the other, wild beyond my handling skills at the time, was neutered and returned to his outdoor home.) Mama Cat was spayed, and after recovery I set her free. She remained my daily companion at the yard, gratefully accepting my food but remaining always just out of reach.
Our relationship held on those terms for about 3 1/2 years. She lost her gaunt look and the rusty undertone in her coat shone more, especially in wintertime. At some point I began giving her a bit of canned food. She gobbled up the Supreme Supper and Mariner’s Catch with even more appreciation. Then one spring morning as I dished out the food, Mama Cat rubbed against my leg! Tears of happiness welled up in my eyes. I extended a hand cautiously and began to stroke her back as she ate. She quickly grew to enjoy the petting, so much so that she would often circle around me, waiting for several firm strokes before digging in to her food.
Like many a domesticated cat, she developed one other habit. She is not too timid to let me know when it’s time for dinner. Some days she stations herself outside the window by my desk, occasionally perching at eye level right on the handrail. When my gaze strays from the computer screen to the outside world she stares back with that irresistibly cute and demanding glare. Other times, when the weather is mild and we leave a door open for ventilation, Mama Cat will even strut inside and edge toward my cubicle until a co-worker informs me that my dinner guest has arrived.
Over the years I have practiced TNR with about 30 mature cats at work. A few show their faces every day or two, but most vanished into the landscape to be seen only on the rare occasions when I retrap one of them. Mama Cat is the only one who has become friendly—at mealtime, anyway.
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