Every Day Is Black Cat Day: Traveller

What, some readers ask, is a Cat Sanctuary for? If nobody goes around rounding up prowling outdoor pets, who are doing their duty of protecting us from rats and the diseases they carry, and jamming them into cages and renting them out to medical students to practice surgery on, and buying expensive TV ads to plead for money so we can give water to animals left out in hot weather, then what do we do, and what’s the difference between the Cat Sanctuary and an ordinary rural home with a few outdoor pet cats?

The short answer is that we could do more (more land, more houses, more cats, more volunteers, more for the local economy) if we had more money. Send us some.

In practice, in order to offer cats normal, natural lives, Cat Sanctuaries can’t actually house all that many cats at one time. I visited one in Tennessee that had thirty-five outdoor cats, but a month later they lost most of them to one of those infections that become epidemics when populations are overcrowded.

Months and even years go by when all the cats actually living here are residents. The cat overpopulation problem is not nearly so serious as cat haters claim; Humane Society shelters keep cats because (a) they rescue some animals who are genuinely hard to place, and (b) they employ control freaks who resist giving up animals for adoption. Most of the time, when I hear of a cat who needs a new home, I can place it.

I am not, of course, talking about “This cat was walking down the road all by itself so obviously it must be abused and neglected” hysterics. Animals walking along roads all by themselves usually have an idea where they are going and, although they may get into trouble with traffic, they’re likely to get to where they’re going and home again if humans don’t interfere.

Yes, healthy, happy, well fed cats do “stray” outdoors. They do this for many reasons: curiosity, hunting instincts, social instincts. They are our primary protection against septicemia. Thank them.

I'm activated by messages like “John Doe died; can you help find a home for his cat?” or “Some people drove past and dumped out a cat; can you help?” or “I’m travelling and need a foster home for a cat.” The answer is usually either "yes" or "Can you wait a week or so while I check online?" Often the connection between foster or adoptive home and homeless cat can be made directly. I don't necessarily see the cat.

There are, of course, exceptions, like the truly antisocial cat I called Barnie. Most cats are asocial—except when mating or rearing kittens they’re not interested in other cats—but Barnie was just plain mean; a big, super-fluffy, half-grown kitten who didn’t challenge the tomcats or the big strong queen cat, but badly injured two kittens and a sweet, docile mother cat. Nobody wanted Barnie. Someone I trusted to get Barnie into a horrible HSUS shelter, which Barnie was a horrible enough cat to deserve, threatened to report me for elder abuse if I made her do it. I was literally on the way to commit that act of elder abuse when somebody came along and offered me money for Barnie. I could not have made that up.

Then there are less drastic situations...Samantha gave birth a day or two before she ought to have done. Of her four kittens one was merely a fetus that never moved, one was a near-term fetus that moved but never really lived, one was a premature kitten that died immediately, and the fourth was a big healthy calico kitten who firmly stated that her name was Serena...

Right. What literally happened? “Something to do with her ancestors?” humans considered. “Penny Candy, or Saltwater Taffy, in honor of Candice and of her color pattern?” The kitten’s coat was only slightly diluted calico, charcoal grey and light orange patches on white; she really does resemble saltwater taffy, but she didn’t care for that name. “Patch, or Patches, or Apache, in honor of Patchnose? Rena, or Catrina, or Serena, in honor of Irene?”

“Meow!” said Serena. Serena was her name and she’s stuck to it. She’s not the sort of kitten who always comes when called, because she is the kind who thinks it’s fun to chase and be chased, but she always responds to “Serena.” She is not a serene cat, nor is her face or personality much like Irene’s. If she’d ever seen a television set I could imagine she wants to identify with a big strong tennis star...Serena’s coat is mostly white, but she is built more along the lines of Serena Williams than along the lines of, say, Martina Navratilova.

I watched only a few episodes of “Bewitched” as a child and was not aware of “Serena” being a sort of reference to Samantha as well as Irene. I don't remember watching an episode where that character appeared!

Anyway Serena had no siblings to play with. Since she wanted to play more than her mother did, and more aggressively than any human ever could, I put out the word that I’d consider adopting a new resident kitten. A very clever and social neighbor cat called Schatzi had had kittens. Her first daughter, Boots, who died so horribly of glyphosate poisoning, had been a joy and a delight during her short life. I was willing to adopt any daughters from Schatzi’s second litter as permanent residents, and do my best to nurse them through any further poisoning episodes.

Word got around and, on Sunday morning, a neighbor drove up with a large box in the back of his truck. He said someone he claimed not to know had just thrust a load of cats upon him. Along with the kitten and his mother they’d packed up a generous supply of cat food, a few toys, a blanket, some flea collars, a cash donation—everything but any indication of any rabies shots the animals might have had, or whether they'd been in a place where they could have been exposed to rabies. A piece of paper was in the box. Medical records? No; a letter saying they’d always been allowed indoors at night when it was cold.

This is not the way any Cat Sanctuary prefers to adopt cats.

The mother cat didn't vanish into the woods immediately. She stayed close to her kitten and even allowed me to come within ten feet (three meters) before dodging away. It was during the night, when she wanted to move into the shed and encountered the possum living there, that she ran away. (This is not poor old Pally Possum, nor is it a new possum who moved in and was moved out again this spring. The word "possum" comes from a word that's been translated as "white animal," because most specimens of Didelphis virginiana are whitish grey, but they actually come in a full range of animal colors. This one's predominant color is pale soft yellow, its name is Butterball, and whether it was fairly entitled to react to provocation I don't know, but it's not staying.)

But the kitten was a charmer. He wound around my ankles and purred even before I picked him up.

Flea removal was the next step. The poisoned collar had repelled fleas from his front end, but his back end still looked positively matted. Flea combing got about a quarter of the population in residence on the kitten’s wispy little tail, with fleas and “flea dirt” (dried-out and digested blood) coming off in such clumps that most of the fleas simply hopped away.

If any of you have been entrusting a mostly outdoor pet whom you don’t cuddle very much to flea collars, Gentle Readers, you might want to have a look at the back ends. Here was a basically healthy, lovable, if skinny, little fellow who appeared to have been rejected because the base of his tail looked as if he had some sort of horrible infectious condition. He didn’t, although he’s undoubtedly been exposed at least to a few mild infectious diseases fleas carry around this part of the world. The mat around the base of his tail consisted entirely of fleas. When combed out, his tail looked fluffy and healthy.

Sometimes black tomkittens have especially ingratiating manners...Mackerel always acted modest about anyone grooming his back end. This little guy was delighted to have the help. (Mackerel had come to me about as badly flea-bitten as this kitten, but without a flea collar, so the fleas were evenly dispersed.) He purred, snuggled, and used his soft paws to direct the comb to where the fleas were dodging to.

“What’s your name?” I considered the kitten. He’s a skinny, lanky animal, at this stage; that means nothing. He has big paws, and huge ears, for his size, and an extra-long tail. He’s solid black,with only a few individual white hairs and a hidden white patch below. “Tar? Jet? Ebony?” No response. “Nero? Phinehas? Pangur Du?” No reaction. “Hamlet? Traveller?” I said, thinking of a science fiction series set on a planet settled by twelve human families and various alien species; the family called Traveller were known for always wearing solid black. (The ones who had speaking parts in the book were old and sinister, but there must have been some nicer ones somewhere.) The kitten seemed pleased. “Is your name Traveller, then? Trav?”

This is the book. In volume one a character comments on the humans' "outrageous whiteness," meaning only Anglo-American families had moved to this planet centuries ago; several characters have blue eyes, including (iirc) the fifteen-year-old who's recently learned how many non-White people her ancestors left behind. For a cat with an almost solid black coat and almost solid white skin, the image of black clothes and "outrageous whiteness" seems appropriate.

“MeYOW!” Trav squeaked, and bounced up to kiss my face, cat fashion. So Traveller is his name.

He’s a little longer, leaner, and lighter than sturdy Serena, maybe a few days younger. (Both of them are technically eating solid food now; both still prefer (cat's) milk, and neither is especially interested in trying new foods.) At the first chance they got to look at each other, they stared, heads down, in a fighting position, then began racing and chasing in the friendliest way, only a little more careful not to hurt each other than siblings usually are. Both are "only kittens" who had obviously missed having siblings.

Cold nights are behind us, or far ahead of us, at the moment. Naming a tomkitten Traveller is a sort of acknowledgment that, from a Cat Sanctuary where they’re not kept in cages, tomcats tend to move on. I imagine, though, that young Trav will find his way indoors when he wants to be indoors. There are tomcats who don’t care whether they ever become anybody’s pets or not, and there are tomcats who realize from birth that a lot of people aren’t going to like them and it may be to their advantage to make friends of the ones who are at all friendly.

Trav is the friend-making kind. Flea combing? Yes, he likes that. Play tag with Serena? Wow, where has this been all his life? Nap? He’ll snuggle beside my knee or, better yet, my shoulder. His song might be “Anything at all, you’ve got it, baaa-beee!” Serena would have approved of him even if he hadn’t come with an assortment of cat treats.

Samantha's feelings about him and his mother are clearly much more reserved, or even mixed. She knows better than to soil the house but she's spent the week doing every other kind of "MY house! MY yard! MY trees! MY human!" display that can be imagined.

Samantha and Serena are an interesting study of cat personalities...Both of them are, undeniably, more aggressive than normal female or even male cats are. (Both are much more aggressive than Traveller.) Neither is what I'd call a mean cat, at all--nothing like Barnie. They don't cuddle in the usual mother-and-kitten way. They show affection by slapping and nipping. Samantha will tolerate being held and stroked for a few minutes, Serena for a few seconds, before they want to play-fight instead. It's important to emphasize that when this is their response to being petted, it's never done to hurt anyone. They're very clever, sensitive cats; even when Samantha's defensive panic bites have hurt me they've been "Back off!" nips rather than serious attacks, and when I've told Serena her play-bites or play-slaps were causing pain (not even skin wounds, just pain) she's always toned down her attack and licked and patted me in an unmistakably friendly, soothing way. But she doesn't snuggle; she grabs.

Samantha has met with reactions to her playing and disobedience that at least scared her, and she has escalated to a level of panic biting and scratching that's not acceptable with most humans. I don't let her interact with children or with brittle-skinned older people. I do note, however, that she's growing much less panicky and more gentle as she's growing up. 

With Serena, I've made it a goal to be firm enough and gentle enough that she's not panicky. So far it's always been fun and games...but I wouldn't let her interact with children either.

Traveller, by contrast, is a soft-pawed snugglebunny. Toward his purpose of becoming a Favorite Kitten he's cultivated many cute kitten tricks. It doesn't hurt his case that his black fur over white skin, amber-brown eyes, slim build, big ears, and long tail give him a resemblance to our Founding Queen, Black Magic. His extensive range of "spoken words" (mews, meows, squeaks, chirps, trills, yowls, whines, warbles, and purr-meows) suggest that he may, like Magic, have had a Siamese grandparent or great-grandparent.

(Interestingly, although both Traveller and Serena are very vocal kittens who make lots of different noises for humans' benefit, and they call to locate each other when separated, when they're actually together they're almost silent. For carnivorous animals there's little obvious survival advantage in making a lot of noise.)

Is it true that cats' personalities can be predicted by color? What I've observed is that even when there seems to be a correlation between color (or build) and a general temperament trait, it's not perfect, and your relationship with the cat depends more on your behavior than the cat's genetic type. Nevertheless: Samantha is a dark "tortoiseshell"--basically black with some orange and white spots; three-colored cats are usually female, and seem to be born knowing that they're special and expecting everyone to adore them. (Check.) Serena is a light-colored "calico"--basically white with some orange tabby and dark grey spots; she does know she's tiny and helpless relative to most living creatures, but she also expects adoration. 

Melanin bonds with adrenalin, so black cats might be expected to be more energetic, with stronger purrsonalities, than white ones. It's hard to say whether this is true of my three-colored cats, or whether Serena defers to Samantha merely as any three-month-old kitten has to defer to its mother. Their preference for bouncy-pouncy rather than cuddly-snuggly interaction has given Serena the look of the most impudent kitten that could be imagined. Only because I've spent days and nights in a room with them can I say that Serena does defer to Samantha. A person watching Serena begin a game with a mock attack, or Samantha encourage her kitten to eat first, would think Serena was dominant, bordering on abusive.

Traveller's combination of black fur and white skin is too unusual to be associated with a temperament type, but my description of Magic's temperament type was always simply "The Purrfect Cat," the ideal first cat to convert a first-time, reluctant cat owner who had formerly inclined to prefer dogs. (In between Magic's reign and Traveller's arrival, our Queen Cat Heather had a kitten called Imp who also had a black outer coat with white skin and silvery undercoat; she was also a sweet, gentle, clever, cuddly kitten whom I wouldn't have been willing to part with; she was stolen outright.) In terms of loyalty, obedience, intelligence, protectiveness, and unmistakable devotion to her human, Magic outclassed most dogs and many humans--and she also killed mice, fostered kittens, and trained possums. I wouldn't expect to meet two cats like Magic in a lifetime, even living among a family of social cats, but if you ever find a black cat with white skin looking for a good home, I would not advise letting the opportunity pass you by. If you want to adopt a shelter cat, it's worth looking for this combination among the black cats available.

I spent at least half of all ten days of my vacation at home, either out in the yard or with the door open, writing and knitting and gardening (and petting cats) and watching Traveller settle in. Fun! I thought Serena might be tempted to bully him--he's longer and taller but she's much heavier. She hasn't been, though. It's rare for children or animals who've learned different habits to learn the better way from one another, but in the process of bonding with her foster brother Serena has actually learned that it's possible to snuggle against my hand rather than always grabbing and biting it, to show good will.