Feral Cat Behavior

*Warning* This article is full of my personal anger. DO NOT read it if you are squeamish, or have a weak stomach. It was therapeutic for me to write it, but will probably not reach mainstream publishing, because the truth is, in rescue, sometimes the truth is unpleasant. There is no “Happily Ever After” no peaceful resolution: You have now been warned…

Homeless Hostages

He would be invisible, this solitary figure, pedaling ahead of me on the side of the darkened highway were it not for the several sets of glowing green eyes caught in the reflection of my headlights. His passengers, six adult cats ride inside two beat-up cat carriers. Five cats crammed inside one carrier. Another, a black female rides solo high in the top carrier. A rite of privilege granted only to her. She’s spared the indignity of sharing the crowded, smelly living conditions endured by the five cats below her. The carriers tip to one side as the rider fights to maintain his balance. Whether intoxicated, under the influence, or simply trying to combat the driving wind and rain, he steadies himself. The carriers remain upright. Swinging wide to the center lane to avoid hitting these night travelers, I realize, I’ve been holding my breath, my face is bathed in tears. This traveler, we know of each other.

He pedals around town on a men’s white ten-speed bicycle. The bike, much like him shows evidence of seeing better days. On one cardboard flap, printed with black marker, uneven, childlike lettering proclaims: “Jesus Saves.” On the other side a single message states “We Need Food.” Both announcements propped up against the two cat carriers, held securely by nylon cord. Strapped between these life messages, on the rear carrier rack,the two cat carriers perch precariously held down with bungee cords. Crushed boxes of Meow Mix and Friskies along with several plastic dishes are stuffed along the back end of the carriers, held firmly in check with frayed rope.

He is new to the area. Routinely seen scrounging for food and discarded treasures in garbage cans and dumpsters. Parked along the main street, he crouches near his bike. I approach, my interest lies within the carriers. Reeling back from the stench, I notice him watching me shrewdly. I ask his name, he tells me “Todd.” When asked his last name, he puts his finger up to his lips in a shushing motion and whispers “C.I.A.” I peer into the bottom carrier. Five kitty faces pressed against the wire. I identify a long-hair tortie, a mackerel tabby, and one golden boy. Two other faces peer out of the darkness. I see a white-faced cat but nothing more revealing. The two cats frantically try to move forward to the front of the carrier. But the three cats hold fast. Their faces clearly signal- “Can you help us?”

I leave an offering nearby on a stoop, a plastic bag containing canned and dry food for the cats along with fruit and soda for him. He tosses the bag into the gutter and sneers at me. A dangerous look flicks across his face. His eyes, earlier narrowed in suspicion at my presence now widen instantly as pupils swallow up any available space; portals into a world seemingly gone mad. Just as quickly, the look fades. I back away, despairing for the cats. For the innocent victims of a world out-of-balance.

I wonder where “Todd” came from. What circumstances led him to this association with six felines. His world, exposed to society consists of him riding along the streets, seeking out shelter. How long has he been homeless? I tried asking him these questions. All the time wanting so badly to fling open up the carriers taking all six cats home with me. I tried to keep my rescue hat on. Not giving in to the despair I felt for these homeless hostages.

He told me these cats were his “friends.” He quoted fractured scripture at me, becoming frantic when I mentioned, I could help him by assisting his cats. Demanding to see my identification, he advanced on me. Fists clenched, face red with rage, spittle flying from his mouth, scriptures flying off his tongue. I backed away slowly, aware of this disconnection from reality.

Todd walked over to the curb, stomping on the bag containing food for himself and his cats. Pieces of apple, Meow Mix fly out of the bag scattering in the street. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the black cat has come to the front of her carrier. She raises her head, smelling food she will never be entitled to eat.

She does retain certain privileges though. Perhaps she was his “first” rescue. Or maybe he views her as his good luck talisman. When he parks to rest, he clips her leash to the bicycle spokes. Allowing her a brief time out of confinement. The other five wait inside their crowded carrier for their turn at freedom (that never arrives). They eat food he throws inside the carrier. The alpha cats possess the advantage here. Their survival skills prominent, the alphas push the weaker cats away. Left inside the carrier on their own, the cats defecate inside their kitty jail. Examined closely, urine scald is visible on their legs and tails.

Our state doesn’t yet have a statute for this type of living conditions for cats. The law stipulates that cats must have food, shelter and water, which they do. Basic needs met.

Aware of the man’s presence around town, the police quickly show up to move him along. I understand this method of quiet intimidation. Make his existence uncomfortable and he will move on, become someone else’s problem. I find this approach slightly ironic. Some people think along the same lines when it comes to feral and stray cats. Don’t do anything proactive about the cats; instead, scare them off and they will go away. If not seen, then clearly they must not exist.

I spoke with one officer who appeared at the scene, explaining that the five cats were living constantly in filth, forced to breathe foul air. “If they were inside a home living in this condition, you and the health department would do something about it!” I argue.

He pulls out his cell phone to call his superior. Withdrawing a short distance away he talks then listens intently. Ending the call, he came toward me, his eyes apologetic. “They have food water and a roof over their heads. It’s not abuse!” He should have just said “They are just cats!”

I saw Todd again this morning on my drive into town. Taking refuge from a passing rainstorm, he had pulled under the overhang of a local bank. Nearby, his bike with its precious cargo leaned against a pole. Out on Liberty, his black cat pulled fruitlessly against the leash that restrained her. Although the rain slammed down on the pavement, she appeared to prefer a quick dash to freedom over this nomadic life. In my heart, I hoped his other cats huddled together inside their carrier, finding their only comfort from each other. I drove past the bedraggled group, my face as wet as the road outside.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, February 20th, 2007 at 3:18 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.