Welcome Mona

Mona

Late last summer, Jim and I learned of a family of cats being neglected at a home near my parents' house.  There was a mother and several very young kittens.  They were living outdoors and not being provided with any food or water.  My gut instinct told me that these kittens would die if not cared for, and I was right.  Jim and I committed to taking the family in and caring for them.  The very first night, one of the kittens became gravely ill.  I rushed her to the vet, but she was too far gone and had to be euthanized.  Do you know how heartbreaking that is? To make the decision to end the life of a kitten only a few weeks old? 

With food, shelter, TLC, and a small financial commitment, two of the kittens survived and flourished.  Though other health issues cropped up (as they are bound to do in stray cats), Jim and I were bound and determined to raise healthy, happy kittens who would make wonderful pets for some lucky family.

The biggest hurdle (beyond the chronic infection issues of one of the kittens--a respiratory issue that was stubborn to go away) was the mother: a young cat herself, likely raising her first litter of kittens--and very frightened and very angry.

We named her Ramona, and we treated her with love and respect.  Yet she hissed and growled every time we walked in the room, threatening to attack.  After a few weeks, we took to wearing rubber boots around her, to protect our legs from the inevitable swipes from her claws.  We couldn't touch her at all--not even while she was eating.  The vet and I discussed the possibility of separating her from her kittens, so they would be able to be socialized without her negative influence.  We worried we would have to spay her and release her back into the wild.  She seemed untameable.  

Yet Jim and I persisted.  We weren't willing to give up on her yet.  One day, with hatred and fear in her eyes, she lashed out at me while I was wearing the boots.  I thought, "I am afraid of you, and you know it.  You are taking advantage of me. I have to take back the power.  Go ahead and attack me all you want.  I won't be afraid any more." And attack she did.  But when I didn't react, she became calm, looked me in the eye, and walked away.  From then on, because I showed no fear, she showed less aggression.  And one day, while she was eating her dinner, I reached out and touched her back, just once.  Over time, once became twice, which became three times, and so on and so on, until miraculously, this feral, angry cat was tamed.  

Once Mona wasn't angry, and I wasn't afraid, we slowly became friends.  She seemed excited to see me, grateful for food and attention.

The day came when her kittens were ready for their forever home--with a perfect, loving family who wanted them both.  I worried about how she would react (I tend to anthropomorphize animals); would she miss them? Would she be sad?

While I wept at saying goodbye to the kittens, Mona seemed unfazed, even relieved.  Jim and I couldn't bear to keep her locked up by herself, and she seemed to need the socialization, so we allowed her into the general population of cats in our home.  She seemed really excited and happy and took to our cats right away.  Everyone accepted her like she had been there forever.  

Mona discovered the cat tree in the corner of our living room, and she fell in love.  She claimed it for her own and rarely leaves it.  And this angry, feral cat somehow became one of the most loving cats I know.  She is patient and loving, gives kisses with abandon, and is easy-going and simple to care for.  How could we not keep her? Her life had been uprooted enough, and we loved her.  So she has stayed and is now a full member of our family--the last to join before the doors were closed on cats.  We're full up.  But we have full hearts.