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Sep. 18th, 2022 09:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vr_trakowskiWarning: animal injury, mention of animal death
My apartment complex has a number of feral cats, mostly fixed at this point. I feed a few of them every night, and extras on occasion. It’s a big complex, and there are several territories. One of the maintenance employees feeds many of the others.
One of his regulars, a small tortoiseshell, would stop by my location every few months at suppertime and yell for her share, but she didn’t come my way often and so I almost never saw her. She wasn’t shy, but she wasn’t touchable in any way; born feral, and aggressive when cornered.
Some time this summer she received a hideous injury to her face. As in, there probably wasn’t an eye left, but it was impossible to tell by looking. Maintenance Guy had managed to trap her for spaying earlier, but when she got hurt he tried and tried and she wouldn’t go near the trap. I’d seen her once since, but I couldn’t get near her.
Last night, she turned up. Her injury was scabbed over but obviously infected; she was terribly thin, mewing quietly. I offered food and water, but she wouldn’t take either; I don’t think she could smell them. I went to sit down where I usually do so everyone could eat in peace.
She followed me. She followed me, this untouchable cat, sat down a couple of feet away, and cried at me. Little mostly silent mews, remaining eye focused on me with determination.
Help me. Help me. Fix it.
It’s not often that a problem comes with that many flashing arrows pointing at it. There was no way to talk myself out of the knowledge that I was her solution. And God (I will say, because that is my faith), having handed me the problem, made sure I could solve it.
1. I called the county’s Animal Control number. A live person answered, even though it was almost 11PM.
2. I got her into the cat carrier (fur and bones, I could feel every rib and vertebra) with no injury to either of us.
3. Animal Control sent someone to pick her up, here at the very edge of the county, a forty-minute drive one-way at the best of times, and long past dark. On a weekend.
I’m certain she was euthanized as soon as she got to the facility. Even if she weren’t feral, that injury was fearsome, and this is a poor county with limited resources. But she’s no longer in pain, no longer starving.
Yet I can’t get over her asking for help. She didn’t trust humans, she only wanted food, she wouldn’t let anyone closer than a few feet.
Until last night.
What made her so certain I could help? What made her demand it of me? Weakness might have made her catchable, but she didn’t cringe or flinch, or even struggle until I got her to the door of the carrier. She even let me pet her a little, tail going up as I stroked my hand down her spine.
How did she know?
******
My apartment complex has a number of feral cats, mostly fixed at this point. I feed a few of them every night, and extras on occasion. It’s a big complex, and there are several territories. One of the maintenance employees feeds many of the others.
One of his regulars, a small tortoiseshell, would stop by my location every few months at suppertime and yell for her share, but she didn’t come my way often and so I almost never saw her. She wasn’t shy, but she wasn’t touchable in any way; born feral, and aggressive when cornered.
Some time this summer she received a hideous injury to her face. As in, there probably wasn’t an eye left, but it was impossible to tell by looking. Maintenance Guy had managed to trap her for spaying earlier, but when she got hurt he tried and tried and she wouldn’t go near the trap. I’d seen her once since, but I couldn’t get near her.
Last night, she turned up. Her injury was scabbed over but obviously infected; she was terribly thin, mewing quietly. I offered food and water, but she wouldn’t take either; I don’t think she could smell them. I went to sit down where I usually do so everyone could eat in peace.
She followed me. She followed me, this untouchable cat, sat down a couple of feet away, and cried at me. Little mostly silent mews, remaining eye focused on me with determination.
Help me. Help me. Fix it.
It’s not often that a problem comes with that many flashing arrows pointing at it. There was no way to talk myself out of the knowledge that I was her solution. And God (I will say, because that is my faith), having handed me the problem, made sure I could solve it.
1. I called the county’s Animal Control number. A live person answered, even though it was almost 11PM.
2. I got her into the cat carrier (fur and bones, I could feel every rib and vertebra) with no injury to either of us.
3. Animal Control sent someone to pick her up, here at the very edge of the county, a forty-minute drive one-way at the best of times, and long past dark. On a weekend.
I’m certain she was euthanized as soon as she got to the facility. Even if she weren’t feral, that injury was fearsome, and this is a poor county with limited resources. But she’s no longer in pain, no longer starving.
Yet I can’t get over her asking for help. She didn’t trust humans, she only wanted food, she wouldn’t let anyone closer than a few feet.
Until last night.
What made her so certain I could help? What made her demand it of me? Weakness might have made her catchable, but she didn’t cringe or flinch, or even struggle until I got her to the door of the carrier. She even let me pet her a little, tail going up as I stroked my hand down her spine.
How did she know?