special needs . . .
He waited until after my guests left, after I had tried my phone call, after I had even left the area of the house in which he hid. Then, when all was quiet, when even much of the traffic from the road outside our house was gone, he crept out. The first thing I felt was the leap on the bed, where I was doing a calming and centering meditation. I guess it worked for someone, because it coaxed him out, and I'm glad it did.
I sat up slowly; he scares pretty easily, and this was no exception. He was off the bed and out the door in a second. I laid back down, put the ambient sound loop back on, and waited. Sure enough, in five minutes he was back, mewling pitifully if I didn't react but bolting if I did. When I actually got off the bed to go to him, he was halfway across the house before I could blink. Thus the game of the determining the right amount of waiting and subtle movements began again.
His name is Leto, from the character in the story Children of Dune. It fits him, since he is the picture of a desert cat with his narrow angular nose and cream and sandy coloring. He's a half-feral rescue. His mother was one of several alley cats behind one of the places I used to work. They were scheduled to be destroyed by an unsympathetic county animal control until several of us, led by my amazing activist supervisor, intervened. She personally rescued Leto's mother, and he was born in her home.
We rehabbed another of the cats, a second expecting mom named Sidera. She and her kittens were eventually adopted by the wonderful dealeonessa , which freed us up to temporarily rehab another couple and get them off to good homes. It didn't work out that way, in the end. Of the three kittens that came to us, only one was adopted. Leto and his brother Stitch remain part of our family today. We already had multiple cats at the time, so this was hardly expected; but all the other prospective owners backed out, and we didn't want to risk impersonal care in this age of overflowing shelters.
For Leto, at least, it would likely have been a death sentence. He is the definition of a special needs animal, perpetually terrified and prone to making messes at the least provocation. He gets along with his brother and my fiance and tolerates me, and I find myself cleaning up after him more than I would like. But there are moments- when it's just me in the house and he runs mewing for someone to show him that he's not alone, when I wake up at night and he's ended up snuggled against me by accident in his sleep, when I see the utter devotion with which he treats my fiance . . .
He can't help his nature, or his condition, and to me it would be no more right or fair to set him aside because he is difficult to deal with than it would be for a human child. And those moments, when I can see it pay off, just a little, see his fears assuaged just a little, I actually feel like we've done something truly beautiful.
I sat up slowly; he scares pretty easily, and this was no exception. He was off the bed and out the door in a second. I laid back down, put the ambient sound loop back on, and waited. Sure enough, in five minutes he was back, mewling pitifully if I didn't react but bolting if I did. When I actually got off the bed to go to him, he was halfway across the house before I could blink. Thus the game of the determining the right amount of waiting and subtle movements began again.
His name is Leto, from the character in the story Children of Dune. It fits him, since he is the picture of a desert cat with his narrow angular nose and cream and sandy coloring. He's a half-feral rescue. His mother was one of several alley cats behind one of the places I used to work. They were scheduled to be destroyed by an unsympathetic county animal control until several of us, led by my amazing activist supervisor, intervened. She personally rescued Leto's mother, and he was born in her home.
We rehabbed another of the cats, a second expecting mom named Sidera. She and her kittens were eventually adopted by the wonderful dealeonessa , which freed us up to temporarily rehab another couple and get them off to good homes. It didn't work out that way, in the end. Of the three kittens that came to us, only one was adopted. Leto and his brother Stitch remain part of our family today. We already had multiple cats at the time, so this was hardly expected; but all the other prospective owners backed out, and we didn't want to risk impersonal care in this age of overflowing shelters.
For Leto, at least, it would likely have been a death sentence. He is the definition of a special needs animal, perpetually terrified and prone to making messes at the least provocation. He gets along with his brother and my fiance and tolerates me, and I find myself cleaning up after him more than I would like. But there are moments- when it's just me in the house and he runs mewing for someone to show him that he's not alone, when I wake up at night and he's ended up snuggled against me by accident in his sleep, when I see the utter devotion with which he treats my fiance . . .
He can't help his nature, or his condition, and to me it would be no more right or fair to set him aside because he is difficult to deal with than it would be for a human child. And those moments, when I can see it pay off, just a little, see his fears assuaged just a little, I actually feel like we've done something truly beautiful.