New cat in town

Ruth on top of the couch, with a remnant of a lace curtain she shredded.
A friend advised me those curtains had to go; clearly Ruth is a cat
of refined tastes.

You couldn't call Ruth & me love at first sight, but that did happen for me last summer.  I was going to the Alameda Animal Shelter (AAS) every week, first to see about volunteering, and then after confronting the reality of my teaching schedule, just to find a little feline companionship.  At least I told myself that's all I wanted; certainly not to find a worthy successor to Clark.  But love struck when I met Sambuca, an alluring short-haired black/tortie 1-year-old female with green eyes, a long elegant nose, and a slightly bushy tail.  The color and tail

Ruth on the armchair

shape were important to me.  The major feline love in Jean's life was a beatific tuxedo cat Felix, who had a bushy tail.  Sambuca seemed like a good enough match.  On the other hand, Sambuca was definitely not beatific: she was a growler and prickly about being handled.  Many cats are like that at the shelter, and my plan was to see if she warmed up on subsequent visits. They told me at the front desk that plan should be OK — superstition makes black cats hard to place.  But the next time I came back, someone had snapped her up.  ∴ Beauty trumps superstition, at least some of the time.

    All was not lost.  Sambuca was surrendered by her humans after surprising them with a litter of kittens.  Her kittens were also at the AAS, in a section out back called the Kitten Cottage.  The front desk told me that one of them, Maggie, matched her mom's physical profile, and invited me to check her out.  A volunteer took me back and opened the cage to let me try to bond with Sambuca's progeny.  Maggie was definitely the stand out in appearance and temperament.  I steeled myself to take the plunge, and once again lost my chance.  Or let myself lose it.  A dad and  his pre-adolescent daughter came in, and when the girl saw Maggie, her eyes lit up, and she hugged Maggie and whispered in her ear.  Clearly this was the animal that could guide her through the treacherous teen-age years; and it was hard to imagine Maggie being happier with anyone else.  I said nothing about a prior claim, and father and daughter left with the perfect cat for them.

   The volunteer tried to console me by showing me other black kittens.  One of them, known only as Kitten #4, had Sambuca's green eyes and elegant nose, but a plain old pointed tail.  No magic.  But she was extraordinarily friendly, licking my fingers and letting me scratch her stomach.

   Thought things over when I got home.  The world was passing me by.  People were bonding with great cats, while I was still at square zero.  And what did I really want anyway?  OK, physical chemistry is important, can't get around that.  But long term, you live with a personality, not an image.  What personality would work for me?  To ask the question was to answer it: a friendly girl.  A female who wanted to be my cat, who like being petted and wanted to snuggle.

   Went back to the AAS, and arranged for a one week trial run with Kitten #4.  When we got home she hung out in the half-bath, with her food, water and litter box.  I had been thinking of an elaborate name for her, like Cleopatra — Kitten #4 lacked a certain something.  But then I remembered one  of my poem discoveries over the  summer, Monuments to a Friendly Girl at a 10th Grade Party, by Stafford.  The girl in the poem was named Ruth.  So.

    That evening, Ruth disappeared from the half bath, and for the next few days the only evidence of her existence was the food she ate and the water she drank, and the litter box.  Sometimes I'd catch a flash of black when she scampered between hiding places.  The thought occurred I might need to set a trap and return her to the shelter.  Having a cat who wouldn't talk to me just wasn't practical, in addition to being an emotional disaster.  Then my niece Eta, a great cat lover, came to visit.  I explained the situation, gave her a cat toy, and asked her to see what she could do.  She went into the living room where Ruth liked to hide, and a few minutes later called out "Uncle Matt, come here."  Ruth was on her lap, and Eta was petting her.

    That broke the ice.  Now she's great in bed.  Honi soit qui mal y pense. She cuddles with me every night, in the way of kittens: she'll climb on my chest, purr, rub against my chin, jump off, bounce off a wall or two, jump back up, purr, rub, repeat.  Great fun.  She also likes to hang out with me when I do stretching exercises.  She has a delightful habit of jumping up and playing with sunbeams.  When she sees/hears me clomping from room to room she still scampers away, but what can you expect? Even in the best relationships, you have your life together, and your lives apart

- µ   2018