Care – for all of God's creatures

Karen VanderVen

"Volunteers wanted to work in cat shelter," the newspaper ad read. “Ideal for people living in pet restricted apartments." Just having moved to a new location for a year, with a lease that litigiously emphasized “absolutely no pets" and having left my two beloved cats at home, I called immediately and soon became a regular volunteer.

Come with me while I go to my weekly three-hour visit. Into a yard I go, where there are two houses. Entering the first house, smelling slightly but not unpleasantly of “cat," we see a large, light, airy, uncarpeted room. Cat toys – catnip, balls, knitted objects – dot the floor. Plants hang from the V ceilings, and often soft classical music is playing on the radio. In the windows, on the floor are soft, bounded sleeping places, lined with soft pillow-case-covered cushions. There are cat scratching posts and tall carpet-covered climbing structures that are punctuated with hollow hiding places. In the room corners are caged areas for sick, “special diet," or “doesn’t like other cats" cats. Inside each of these, besides a cat, is all the cat needs to live comfortably: a climbing and scratching post, a water and food dish, a cozy soft bed to curl up in, and some toys. And all over – in the windows, in the beds, in play on the floor – are cats.

Before they were brought to the shelter, these cats may have come from the woods, where they led a feral existence. They may have come from alleys, where they have scratched out a solitary living. They may have been found wandering around aimlessly, or abandoned in a box, open or, in one case, tightly sealed with tape. They may have been caught by the shelter director, Dee, on receipt of a tip “there’s a stray cat in the neighbourhood."

They may appear on the doorstep in the morning, surreptitiously shoved out of passing cars in the night. They arrive scruffy, injured, sometimes burnt, deliberately; covered with paint or even with glue. They are small and large, young and old, short- and long-haired; plain and patterned: calico, tortoise shell. They romp, fight, slumber, hide, purr, growl, approach, withdraw.

There is Hiss – the cat who bares her teeth and snarls when you enter the room, suggesting that you stay away. But if you approach her closely, she lets you pet – even hug – her. She's really just a pussycat. MarMar – the feral cat. I know I will never “get to her" not just because I’m not around enough, but because life was much too hard for her alone in the forest and she may never trust, or allow close, the rest of the world. I notice a stunning long-haired calico cat, whose adroitness, grace, and playfulness immediately draw me to her: Wildflower. She is the one who was found in a parking lot taped up in a box. “Wildflower has come a long way since we got her," said Dee. “She was quite standoffish at first." Callie. Blueberry. Elizabeth. Sam. “He’s just an old mush," we both agree, enjoying this cat who was orphaned by a fire. He leaps up into our arms, so we can see his scorched whiskers, and purrs while we hold and stroke him. Fat Abe, who loves to be combed, luxuriating and rubbing up against my leg. Fox, the big marmalade. When Fox was not feeling well, he let me pet his broad, furry back.

When he felt better, he growled and raised his paw. Curly is the first cat you see when you come in the door – carefully standing in the jamb so as not to let any wily cat hiding behind it slip out. Friendly, happy, this beautiful, lithe gray-patterned cat has been adopted several times, but because he won’t use his litter anywhere else but at the shelter, he is always returned to it. He will live happily there, his real home, for the rest of his life.

Some cats have been there since I started three months ago, mostly the older ones. Today there was a beautiful, plump cat, all white except for her black nose. She’s young and is already slated for adoption, as are the tiny pitch-black kitten boy-girl twins, Parker and Josie.

As I have worked over the weeks, I have settled into a routine as a “cat care worker." I arrive, quickly sense the tenor of the cats, and set to work with an array of activities that can maintain hygiene and safety, bring them comfort and give me a chance to visit with and interact with each cat as he or she can tolerate it. On one day, the cats were ... dissonant. There were several “accidents" on the floor that I carefully scooped up on a paper plate and then disinfected. I made a special effort that day to soothe them, moving quietly, petting, combing, carefully placing dishes. On another day the cats seemed “up." No accidents. They played on the floor with their cat toys, they meandered pleasantly around their space, and several came up and rubbed against my legs. Even the most skittish cats allowed me to approach and stroke them behind their ears.

My first task each day is to change their water. There are numerous water bowls: “community bowls" for those cats who use the larger space. There are bowls for those older cats who stay in their own window spot or for those cats that are in special contained areas. There are “tricks to the trade," as Dee says, and I have worked hard to learn them. “Put the bowl down on the floor before filling it so you don’t spill on the floor ... Place the bowl near their food, not near their litter, or they won’t use it ... Work the room from top to bottom, so everything that drops down can be vacuumed up at the end."

Then on to my favourite job, done with a cat comb, which is to remove cat hair and dander from soft surfaces. I have embellished this activity in two ways. One way is to gently brush each cat who is willing as I systematically work my way around the room. I first hold out my hand to a new cat, letting it sniff and gradually get to know me. Then I lay the brush on its head and brush back. There are different responses. Some cats relax into the stroking, and would be happy for me to brush them for hours. Others tolerate it pleasantly a minute or so, and then show me, by moving away, that they've had enough. Others snarl, hiss, or rake with their paws, and you back off – for now.

The other way is to do what I now call “making their beds." I do more than simply comb away the cat hair. I pick up the pillow, shake it and plump it, and clear away any food pellets or other debris that may have gotten underneath. Then I smooth and replace it. Sometimes I have to “depose" a cat from its perch to make its bed. At first I was reluctant to disturb a cat. But I soon found, as with old Bertie particularly, that I might create new opportunities for that cat, and change my own expectations. Old Bertie seemed permanently ensconced in her seedy bed, and I knew I needed to clean it, plump it, and change the newspapers underneath it. When she moved, much to my amazement this ancient, skinny old cat jumped down to the floor, ate, drank water, sniffed around other cats, and comfortably resettled herself near the radiator. Around the room I go, attending to each cat and bed, finally ending up with a large pocketful of the hair culled periodically from the comb as I go along.

Then comes vacuuming: moving around the floor picking up the balls of fur, the stray pellets of food, the scattered kitty litter. While I go through my routine, Dee may be busy elsewhere, often on the telephone, talking with colleagues in other shelters who may send her a cat that she can handle in return for one in which they “specialize." Or she may be arranging to speak to a church group and to take a small cat selection along to display, recruiting new adoptive families.

Another round on the floors for last-minute patting and tidying up, and my morning’s work is done. I look over the room as I leave – and I sense, paradoxically, calmness and energy in the room. I gather my purse and newspaper to read on the bus and look back once more. As the door to their room clicks shut, several pairs of green and gold eyes flicker in my direction. I gently push a furry body inside, and then I am out where a gentle breeze stirs the rainbow of cat hairs sticking to my sweatshirt as I walk to the bus stop.

This feature: VanderVen, K. (1995). Care – for all God's creatures, Journal of Child and Youth Care, 10, 3, pp.89-91