Kitty Conundrum: Found, Can't Keep, Part 1

Just five months into dating, Matt and I moved into an apartment together. The landlord, who was moving out of the unit we were moving into, mentioned a little kitty living under the house that he had been feeding along with his own cat. We didn’t think much of it. The day we moved in, we stood in the small backyard, surveying our domain and the view down the canyon to the ocean beyond. Matt pulled me in close to him with his strong arm, and we chatted together with excitement, satisfaction, and curiosity of how this new adventure would unfold in our still-budding relationship.  

The little kitty came running up to us, meowing loudly and rubbing up against Matt’s leg. Matt greeted it warmly, like he did with just about every living creature. After looking at it for a few minutes, he exclaimed that it might be the now-grown kitten he had had when he lived on this land years before.

So we fed the cat together; and since Matt passed, I’ve continued to feed her for a total of five years. All with the belief that she was Matt’s cat from years before we met, which would make her at least 13 years old. She mostly stayed out of our way, quietly occupying our backyard, and becoming an expected familiar face.

A few months ago, she started meowing earlier and earlier in the morning to get fed. She was spatting with the unfixed male neighbor cat; he was mounting her, and they would yowl and hiss all night. Part of me was jealous. That cat was getting more action than me. She continued yowling at all hours, even after the frenzy of spring or the full moon seemed to fade from the neighbor’s cat. I’m not sure if Little Kitty is even fertile; I’ve never seen her have kittens, or do the “bootie dance,” as one vet tech called it in one of many phone calls to try and figure out what to do with this cat.

Over the past couple of weeks, her yowling became distressing, as it literally sounded like she was saying, “OW!” The neighbor who shares a wall on one side asked me a few times what was up with the cat. I said I didn’t know, but I thought she was really old, and was waiting for her to kick it.

And then the yowling became unbearable. She was clearly in distress of some sort, and I noticed that one of her eyes had gone dark. Perhaps she was going blind, and that was causing her to yowl? For days, I agonized what to do about this cat. Each yowl sent a shot of adrenaline into my heart, knowing she was in distress, and knowing it was totally up to me to make a decision. Do I treat and keep the cat? Get rid of the cat? Each idea had the weight of how… and of having to figure it out all on my own.  

I shared my conundrum with a friend, unable to contain the emotional stress on my own. This friend has a background in animal hide tanning and farm work, and she very practically asked if the cat just needed to be taken out and shot. While somewhat shocking to consider, I actually spent a good 36 hours thoroughly thinking through that option.

Perhaps I thought about it too much. In the shadow of the loss of my husband that was totally out of my control, it was overwhelming to think about being 100% in control of taking a life. Little Kitty seemed to have so much life in her still. Who was I to decide when her time was up?! And how would we do it? How do you shoot a cat without it turning into a splattered mess? Could I be there and “midwife” her through that transition, without undue trauma of seeing a blood everywhere? A complex fantasy developed of having a shared crossing experience with this cat, journeying with her soul out of her body, and sending her to the other side, back to Matt, with the message, “SEND HELP. I can’t do this on my own anymore.”

In the end, I couldn’t reconcile choosing to end her life, at least not without more information that that was the direction she was heading anyway. I called a mobile vet clinic and was able to set up an exam for that afternoon. I was relieved. And also still in the escape fantasy of putting her down (more humanely) with the vet, and me still midwifing her transition. As it was, the vet and tech went right for the eye, and after thorough examination, determined that she had iris melanosis, with secondary glaucoma. It’s painful, the vet said. But otherwise, she seemed healthy, was superbly behaved, and was even purring at one point during the exam. They also said that she didn’t seem like she was that old. Not old enough to fit the timeline of being Matt’s cat from years ago. So I had an identity crisis about who this cat was, and how much was I responsible for her.

When the vet mentioned that she would be fine after getting her eye removed, and how much that could cost, I welled up in outrage and resistance. Chin trembling, I told them that there was no way I was spending over a grand to take care of this cat that I never fully decided I wanted anyway. I guess I found the edge of my cat ownership.

Hence ensued over a week of calling the ASAP shelter, the Humane Society, and Animal Control, sort of getting the runaround about when and where I could bring this cat. According to the county, I was the legal owner because I had been feeding her for more than 30 days. The three, two-hour windows they have per week for owner relinquishment conflicted with my work commitments. Meanwhile, Little Kitty continued to yowl, driving a stake of suffering into my heart each time I heard her. I finally got an appointment for the next Saturday, a few days away.

Of course, in the anticipation of saying goodbye, my son decided to snuggle her every day, pick her up, call her “my kitty,” and otherwise break my heart at the thought of relinquishment. But the peace and freedom I envisioned on the other side of relinquishing ownership held me fast to my plan. Click here to read Part 2 of the Kitty Conundrum: Found, Can’t Keep.