The saga of Beta Cat continues and has now evolved from tragic to happily bizarre. Back when movie theaters used to show a serial, along with the main feature, at Saturday matinees for kids, each installment would typically include a brief "The Story Up to Now." In that vein, I’ll begin with a very quick recap.
More than a year ago, I found two feral cats living in my basement, having clawed their way through the mesh over a crawl-space vent. I wasn’t at all happy about this because of the toll feral cats take on songbirds. But after trying unsuccessfully to get rid of them, I left them alone. And when winter weather grew stormy, I took pity on the tabbies and started feeding them.
One of the pair was clearly dominant, so I dubbed her Alpha Cat and her skittish companion Beta Cat. I figured the two were related; not only did they look alike, they shared food and slept curled around each other.
Over time, I managed to sort of tame Alpha Cat but had very little luck with Beta Cat, who would run whenever I got close. Then tragedy struck. My house needed to be fumigated, so I herded the cats out of the basement and nailed a board across the torn mesh. Despite my requests, however, the fumigator kept leaving the basement door open, and Alpha Cat slipped back into her place of refuge, only to be gassed. Her death left Beta Cat confused and lonely. I too felt I’d lost a friend.
Now for the new episode: After Alpha Cat died, it took a month or so, but Beta Cat eventually began letting me pet her two or three times before mealtime on my deck. More than that and she’d scamper away. Another month passed, and Beta Cat would actually take a couple of steps into my kitchen and rub herself against my leg before scurrying back outside.
About this time, I began to notice something worrisome. Beta Cat was growing awfully plump. Worse yet, the Humane Society said this is the time of year when kittens often are born. I could imagine myself spending a weekend sitting in front of the Palace Market with a cardboard box full of kittens, trying to sweet talk strangers into taking one. I certainly wasn’t going to keep them; the last thing my neighborhood needed was a new batch of feral cats.
So I arranged with the Point Reyes Animal Hospital to bring Beta Cat in for an abortion and to be spayed. I borrowed a couple of Have-a-Heart traps and chose one sized for raccoons; Beta Cat by now was one big cat.
I baited the cage-like trap with tuna, and when I came back a few hours later, Beta Cat was caught. However, I didn’t want her to associate me with the traumatic experience she was about to endure, so I prevailed upon my departing partner Don Schinske to pick up the cage and take it to the Animal Hospital. All went smoothly, and afterward Schinske left Neil Armstrong’s historic message on my answering machine, "The Eagle has landed."
Around noon last Friday, staff from the Animal Hospital phoned me with some surprising news. A vet had anesthetized Beta Cat, shaved her stomach to begin surgery, and found a scar that indicated she had already been spayed. She wasn’t pregnant, just fat. Obviously, she had not always been a feral cat. But where did she come from?
About 5 p.m., Schinske picked up the cage with the Beta Cat back inside it and brought her to my house. The veterinary staff had told me she ought to be kept inside for at least a couple of days, and when I got her back, I saw why. She was out cold, absolutely limp.
So I hurried down to Building Supply Center and picked up a litter box and a box of the artificial sand that goes in it. Then I went out to dinner with friends.
When I returned home, Beta Cat had moved a few feet but was still in a daze. Taking advantage of her nearly comatose state, I picked her up, sat down in an easy chair, and began petting her. After about 20 minutes, I could hear a faint purr, but then she fell asleep, and so did I. The two of us slept for more than an hour, her hanging her head off my knee and occasionally burping.
When I finally awoke, I lightly petted her some more, and she revived slightly. But when she tried to stand up, she couldn’t. I left the living room for awhile, and when I returned the old, skittish Beta Cat seemed to be back. She made a frantic effort to run from me but just fell over. I picked her up a second time, sat down, and resumed gently petting her. Soon she was purring again.
Then more oddities occurred. Beta Cat would no longer eat the canned cat food I’d been feeding her unless I laced it with tuna. Luckily, the Palace has been running a sale on tuna, 50 cents a can, and I’d stocked up. I began feeding her a third of a can of tuna mixed with several tablespoons of cat food twice a day. That she’d eat.
More importantly, she understood was the litter box was for and used it. The veterinary staff said cats often housebreak themselves, so I couldn’t tell if this was something she had learned in a previous home or merely showed she was tidy. In either case, it was good news.
A week has now gone by since I originally trapped Beta Cat, and I’m continuing to keep her indoors. She doesn’t seem to mind as long as she gets regular doses of attention, which usually amount to 10 minutes of petting morning, noon, and night.
By now she follows me around the house, meows when I don’t stop to pet her, and rubs herself against whatever part of me she can reach. The only thing she seems unable to cope with is the movement of large objects. When I carried a big cushion from one room to another on Monday, she panicked. Cowering in my hallway, she hissed at the cushion and bared her teeth. However, as soon as I had put the cushion away and returned to the hall, Beta Cat rubbed herself against my leg and waited to be petted.
I never thought I’d become a cat person, but apparently I have. It’s not an easy confession to make.