THE STORY OF CLEO
I filled out the application and checked back every day to see if there were any cats available for rescue in my area. S.A.B.R.E. is in the Midwest and I am in PA. Right around Christmas time, an Aby came up for adoption in Maryland. I contacted S.A.B.R.E. and asked about her, Cleo.
I was told she wouldn't make a good first cat. I explained that although I did not currently have a cat, I did have cat experience. I had a cat while in college (he ran away and I still miss him, Zeus, what a great cat) and then again after graduation. The aunt I spent summers with had many cats, I explained. I house sat one summer for people who had 3 cats. I had a lifetime of cat experiences. (Little did I know what kind of cat experience was awaiting me.) So the S.A.B.R.E. people put me in touch with Pat who was fostering the Aby in Maryland.
Pat and I hit it off on the phone. She said the cat had a history of aggressive behavior. I was undaunted. "What's a little scratching and biting from a little cat," I thought to myself.
We set up a meeting. I drove 3 hours (with my ever supportive husband) to meet Pat and Cleo. We had tea, we got to know each other. "She's beautiful," I thought. "How could anyone be afraid of her, she's so little and petite," I said to my husband.
After a rough first night where she hid under a chair and howled, and a frantic, what did I get myself into, phone call to Pat, Cleo and I started getting to know each other. I spent time with her every day, not approaching her but letting her approach me.
Buck snuffled on the other side of the door. Gradually she got to know her way around. I let her stay in a bedroom with a baby gate up, being assured that when she was ready she would come out, which she did.
For awhile she seemed happy with us. We
spent time together alone before Buck got up in the morning. She was
never happy to see him and she would swat at him if he tried to sniff
her butt (his favorite pastime).
Like Buck, she followed me around wherever I (and Buck) went. She played when I played with her. She purred when I petted her. She slept on a chair in our bedroom. I took her to the vet, she passed muster.
Now, she didn't care much for anyone else and couldn't be around company or children as she would scratch. This was understandable, I thought, who knew what her background was like. Once she felt loved and safe and secure, she'd be okay even if she was never really friendly.
Sometimes she'd get mad at me and scratch at my feet but I always gave her a time out and sent her to her room. When she would rejoin the family, she'd be fine. People were always telling me unfriendly, I don't know why they put up with it, cat stories about other people. Life went on.
Although you can't let a S.A.B.R.E. rescue be an outdoor cat, I would take her out in my arms and on a leash. She stayed with me and sat with me and seemed a little nervous but curious.
Then one day, I'm not sure how it happened she got away from me and ran away. I looked around for her and found her in a neighbor's yard. "There you are", I said, and I bent down to get her. She attacked me. She scratched my arms, howled and squirmed, and needless to say, in my shock and alarm, got away again. Not knowing for sure what to do, I went to get her carrier. By the time I got her carrier and equipment I was going to use to round her up, she was back in our yard. "Come on, Buck, let's go in, " I said nonchalantly, acting like I didn't see her, and leaving the door open. She followed us in and that was that.
Her attempts to get out increased as did her bouts of anger with me. I sometimes thought she was mad at me for not letting her out. I always talked to her and explained myself and my reasons, as if she understood. I was covered in scratches. Buck was afraid of her. No family or friends would go near her. She scratched my face once when I was holding her in front of my sister-in-law, who was horrified. But I understood, I shouldn't have tried to expose her to my sister-in-law, of course.
Then one day I got a piece of furniture delivered and she escaped and I actually let her go for awhile. When I finally did go after her, she was still in the yard. She wouldn't come to me, and was aggressive, spitting and howling. Even I was getting tired of this. With my fireplace gloves for protection, and a squirt bottle for direction, I finally got her back in the house.
I had kept in contact with S.A.B.R.E. and Pat for support and advice throughout Cleo's time with me. I decided that day that enough was enough, and I was going to ask them to take her back. She scratched my legs that night when I gave her her dinner. I called the vet also to ask some questions as Cleo had just received a shot. (She had a sore on her chin that I had found when petting her and it didn't get better right away. So I had taken her into the vet and very easily he had given her a shot.) It was after hours but I said it wasn't an emergency and just left a message.
The next morning, a Saturday, I got up and went out to see how Cleo was doing. As a precaution, since she had been so testy, I put on a pair of knee high cowboy boots with my nightgown.
She came up to me and rubbed against my legs, I leaned over and petted her and was talking to her. The next thing I knew her claws were attached to the inside of my upper knee, the fleshy part, and she was screaming and so was I!
I pulled her off of my leg and dropped her to the floor. I jumped back into the bathroom, closed the door and stood there thinking, "Now what?" I couldn't believe it, I was being held prisoner in my own bathroom by a six pound cat!
I had blood running out of the holes in my legs which I tried to stop with toilet paper. "This can't be happening," I thought to myself, "let me check." I open the door a crack and peer out. There she is--just sitting--with a look in her eyes that I don't recognize as Cleo. Then, in a flash, she charged at me. I closed the door again.
"This is ridiculous," I said to myself, "you can't stay in here all day." So, I picked up the bath mat and held it in front of my legs. I opened the door, stomped my feet and ran the two feet to my bedroom. I opened the door, jumped into my room, slammed the door, ran and hopped into the bed. I looked at my husband and said, "I'm afraid of the cat!"
We got Cleo into a room by herself. The room (an atrium) had lots of windows and light with french doors connecting it to the family room. We left her alone with food and litter, but every time she saw me at the door, she charged at me. It broke my heart. I cried a lot.
Saturday turned into Sunday and I called the vet again (who by the way never answered any of my calls). I called Pat (who was wonderful and supportive). I called other vets (no help). I called animal shelters (no help). I contacted an animal emergency room (nice but no help). I even called the state police (no help again). Every time I talked to someone I told them my tale of woe. I'm sure they thought I was some kind of hysterical nut who couldn't handle a domestic cat.
Sadly. I knew by this time that there was
only one option. It was an incredibly, emotionally painful
experience. On top of the pain of knowing I had lost Cleo, I was
saddened that there were no agencies or services to help me. The vet
never did return my calls. The
S.A.B.R.E.
people were great through it all, very supportive and even refunded
my adoption and euthanasia fees. Though the money didn't matter to
me, the gesture was greatly appreciated.
S.A.B.R.E. was extremely upset, as well, at my bad experience with an Aby and promised to keep me in mind for another cat. At the time, the end of March 1996, I didn't want another cat.
Some time in May, they contacted me about two Somali kittens (known now as the Red Family ) and at first I was hesitant and not sure I was ready. When the time came that the kittens were ready for adoption, I flew to Chicago to pick them up. The whole trip took 6 hours and cost less than a trip to the vet.
At first we thought we'd be getting only one but Mark, my ever supportive husband said, "Why not take both?" So when I asked if I could take both kittens, they were happy that the kittens could stay together. And thank God, we did because I don't know how we would have kept one of them entertained!
They are so sweet and affectionate. Mark would say when we first got them,"What did we ever do to deserve such sweet kittens?"
"Cleo", I'd remind him.
I still feel very badly about what happened to Cleo. Everyone I talked to at the time said that ultimately the end would be the same. We don't know the reason--bad breeding, a brain tumor--that this happened. But since we got two absolutely wonderful Somali cats, it all turned out for the best.
To read more stories, click Bucky's Story
To read about our typical day go to: Pet Perks
Bucky tries chinese herbs, hear all about it: My Chinese Herb Experience
Read about ice cream Lessons Learned By the Scoop
Read about deep sea fishing in a Nor'Easter A Midsummer's Nightmare
Read about a fictional girl Lacey Santini
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