I never thought I'd live to see the day...Serena, the non-snuggling Luddite cat, is sitting on my lap and looking at the computer. Looking at it, as distinct from trying to slap it or step on it. No, I'm not sure whether she's delirious, but her temperature seems to have peaked and subsided, from feverish to merely sitting-by-the-hot-air-fan. It's early to start a Petfinder post (it's Tuesday) but these are the pictures I'm picking with Serena's help. Such as it is.
This is a soppy sentimental post of which Serena would not approve if she weren't still fighting the effects of deliberate poisoning. But she is. And the Internet needs to know how feeble our laws are about this kind of thing, how badly we need laws like the good old biblical sentence on a (mercifully hypothetical) pet killer: "The man that has done this thing shall surely die, AND he shall restore the (value of the) lamb sevenfold."
There are those who think the first part of the sentence may not have been meant literally. I see no reason why it wouldn't have been. For stealing a sheep out of a flock of livestock that were about to be slaughtered, a thief would have paid the value sevenfold. For killing his neighbor's pet, the evildoer also deserved the same penalty he would have incurred by killing any other member of the family. One soldier would have been sent to take off his head while the rest of the troop collected the cost of the pet lamb out of his estate, and his family could count themselves lucky if anything was left. Human civilization has made some positive progress since King David's time, but also taken some steps backward. That we don't do this to pet killers is definitely a step backward. There's nothing humane about letting these scum practice for a chance to kill humans.
Zipcode 10101: Gilda the Goofball from Newark
Her web page: https://www.petfinder.com/cat/gilda-the-goofball-74872180/ny/new-york/daps-animals-nj694/
Her spots are her own, but she's the same general type of calico cat as Serena. She sounds as if she has a similar purrsonality too, only, of course, not quite so wonderful. When shelter staff say Gilda is social they merely mean that she's interested in humans. She's rough with other cats. Serena was patient and gentle with Traveller, as she is with kittens. Nevertheless, the same "I love her, the right person will adore her, but keep her away from strangers" feeling persists. A person who's enjoyed reading about Serena's sweet and spicy life, and lives near New York City, might want to meet Gilda. A person who lives with other animals or small children would not.
"Are we looking for a cat to replace me?" Serena looked as if she was thinking.
"No," I said. "If you leave me, there will have to be another cat to chase the mice away, and even if you don't I'll try very hard to find another bride for Trumpkin, but there is no cat who will ever replace you, Serena. You are irreplaceable. You still have two living daughters whom I'd like very much to bring back here, but there will never be another you."
Zipcode 20202: Thumbelina from South Carolina
Her web page: https://www.petfinder.com/cat/thumbelina-75142663/dc/washington/final-victory-animal-rescue-sc497/
"I'm tired," Serena said, "anyway. I'm not feeling well."
"Well, I think this is the cutest picture," I said.
"Whatever." Serena curled up in a ball and closed her eyes. "I'm bored. The Lap Pooper isn't even showing any pictures."
"It's very slow. I'm surprised it's working at all on such a rainy day."
"You can wake me when the other pictures pop up," Serena suggested, and promptly went into a deep sleep that lasted through the reading and writing of Thumbelina's story.
No, she's not a polydactyl cat with special thumbs. What makes this cat special is that trusting shelter staff may accept her story, but this web site does not. Read her web page for yourself. All the signs of petnapping are there. You want to go to South Carolina and investigate her story very thoroughly. I'm not saying it's not possible that she was genuinely homeless, but I'd want to spend a few months checking the facts before I started to bond with this cat. But they say she'll be easy to bond with, if, in good conscience, you can.
Zipcode 30303: Torticia and family, from Atlanta
Their web page: https://www.petfinder.com/cat/torticia-73822263/ga/atlanta/southern-animal-rescue-ga653/
Torticia is the one closest to the camera, on the right side of the photo. Her best buddy is the darkest kitten, Zephyr; they're up for adoption together. Goldie, Graycie, and Char are also adoptable if you have a barn and need five cats. The kittens were born feral but have been adjusting to human company since October. Surgery and vaccinations started in November, so they've run up vet bills and their purrsonalities may have changed a bit. Torticia is described as the smallest kitten and the bouncy-pouncy one who likes to wrestle with any of the bigger ones, as of October.
"Which of these photos do you like?" I asked Serena, mousing around the first page of adoptable cats near Atlanta.
Part of Priscilla Bird's research for her friendly Sasquatch and Northwest Woods stories is watching Bigfoot videos. She also knits socks. Anyway the beta readers for her books at least keep some of the videos playing in the background. I am not otherwise into the Sasquatch thing. We have verified that one poster does absolutely no investigation before reading whatever stories people make up and send; I suspect several others do too. All in good fun no doubt. Moving images of Bigfoots usually look like blurry, distant images of men in winter gear, while still images that fit believably into their background look like tree trunks and stumps, and close-ups look like digitized mash-ups of gorilla and human faces. However, lack of proof that a thing exists does not equal proof that it may not exist. Serena is a Listening Cat and she was really listening to a Bigfoot video playing in a tab I hadn't even opened.
"I was listening to the man talking," Serena grumbled.
"It's been five hours since you went outside," I observed.
"That is not a problem," Serena growled.
"Oh yes it is," I said. "Even on the hospice list, you're not allowed to be a bedwetter right on my lap."
"It's still raining outside."
"So you can drink some water fresh out of the sky."
"Sometimes," said Serena, feeling the draft from the door and sitting down on the floor, "you ask another human to beat you with a stick and make you go somewhere. I feel like that."
"It's an hereditary family joke that started before I was born. I'm not even sure which long-gone elder said it first. All I know is that, when we say it, none of us has ever picked up an actual stick. No need. We say it when we know we want to go--or to have gone and got it done. Would you like me to pick you up and put you outside then?"
"Don't pick me up. I'm still clogged and stiff and sore around the ribs." Serena stood up and ran outside.
It was still raining. The computer was still very slow. I did not have time to pick a dog photo before it was time to bring her back into the warm office.
I hate that Serena is on the hospice list. She's not quite eight years old, very close to the feline equivalent of my age, which is senior to a lot of people, all right, but nowhere close to "old"! If anyone really knew what was killing her slowly, something might be done about it. All we have to go on is a lying cat killer's threat to poison meat; since we know he's a liar we don't know that the poison was in meat, rather than on the ground where the cats would lick it off their paws. Not knowing what might aggravate or counteract the poison, we don't know whether an antibiotic for the strep infection that's also developing would kill her or cure her. It's unlikely that charcoal would make matters any worse; there's no guarantee that charcoal can help, and for no obvious reason she's turned against the safe home remedy she's taken willingly in the past, and in the absence of a guarantee that it will cure her I don't feel justified in forcing her to take it. There've been ups and downs. She might still survive but it would take a miracle.
She's on the hospice list. She can have what she likes while she's alive. I've known from the beginning that cats normally live about ten years, women normally live about eighty years, and I was somewhere close to fifty years old when Serena was born. Do the math. But I'll never forget how, when Silver didn't think she could nurse her kittens, Serena did not simply adopt the kittens but taught Silver how to feed and clean them. Even among social cats I don't think that'll be seen twice in one human lifetime. I've loved Serena, not unconditionally as people love babies, but conditionally as we love our human friends.
The loss of an extraordinary animal is a bad thing. Good things can come from bad things. For example, the sociopath who's killed her could be locked up for life. In a mental institution. With lots of drugs that have lots of side effects. I know I will never think that death threats against animals don't need to be reported to the police, ever again.
I don't think Serena has ever been friendly with a dog in real life, and she didn't exactly engage with the cat photos, and she is generally friendly--or at least open to the possibility of friendliness--with cats. I decided not to bother her about the dogs. Even so, she woke up and looked at dog pictures. She did not actually show a preference. How would she have known what makes a dog picture appealing to anybody, when no living dog has ever appealed to her?
Zipcode 10101: Abby from NYC
Abby is thought to be more Chihuahua than anything else. At one year old, she weighed ten pounds; she might grow a little bigger, not a lot. She could be satisfied guarding a tidy little loft. She is described as sweet, obedient (surely they mean "for her age"?), and delighted to play with other dogs.
Serena was sleeping deeply. I thought she might have gone into a healing-or-dying coma but, after I'd walked to the door, she indicated otherwise.
"I don't want to go out," she said. "It's cold! It's wet! My mother used to want a litter box of her own. Now I know why. I never knew my mother was ill."
"She wasn't. She wanted a litter box of her own to make an impression on temporary cats. Use the sand pit if you can."
Ten minutes later I opened the door. "Serena," I started to call, just as she leaped inside.
"Get over to your bench and make a lap for me," she "said" with that imperious pose she showed in her kitten picture. "My paws are cold and wet. I will now proceed to walk all over your bench and show you."
"I could have carried you on a nice cat blanket," I said.
"I don't want to be carried. I feel dizzy and bleary-eyed. It's easier to walk on my own feet."
Zipcode 20202: Sandy from DC
Dalmatians were probably among her ancestors, but they warn that, whatever her photos may look like on your screen, she's not a classic Dalmatian with black or even brown spots on a white coat. In real life, they warn, it's more like brown spots on a yellow coat. Sort of sandy-colored. Sandy is a big playful pup whose favorite things, they warn, include playing "floor is lava" when she feels like sitting on someone's lap and kissing everyone who does or doesn't want to be kissed. She can be nervous and has a lot of energy to run off. She'd do best in a house with a big yard and people who have trained puppies before. She is said to be affectionate and eager to please.
"I don't want to spend the night in the cage, even if it's full of newspapers I never used," said Serena.
"I don't want to spend the night fighting with you," I said, "and as this is most definitely a night when I want to watch the sun come up in the morning, having 'doxed' the one who's done this to you, I want to cook a fairly elaborate frugal meal. Without any fur or drool in it, thank you very much."
"I want to taste everything," said Serena. "I don't have much appetite for anything. I may still have enough poison inside me to paralyze my digestive system, like Pastel's. But I want to sniff and taste your food and tell you if I think I can eat any. I'm interested in boiling water. I'm interested in raw, dry cornmeal."
"That has to be some sort of feline version of the Deadly Sin of Avarice," I said. "I never knew you were greedy, Serena."
"I'm not greedy. I just want to choose the perfect last meal!"
"Are you sure it will be the last?"
"Well, no, but if it is..."
"What you get," I said, "is a tin of chicken. You will eat it in the Samantha Box."
Zipcode 30303: Haller from Houston by way of Atlanta
His web page: https://www.petfinder.com/dog/haller-75145348/ga/atlanta/waiting-under-the-willow-foundation-wuwf-rescue-tx2467/
Haller is part Collie and part Cattle Dog, and maybe a few other things, but in any case he is a real Texas cattle dog in search of a job. He is described as smart and friendly enough to adapt to city life if he has to, but he really needs a big yard and some responsibility. He's in Houston but his caretakers are willing to take him almost anywhere if convinced that he'll be appreciated. He could be a valuable dog, so the adoption fee even for Houstonians is on the high side for a mixed breed, but if you do happen to raise cattle or sheep he might be a bargain.
Serena went into the Samantha Box, nibbled a piece of chicken, lay down on some clean dry newspapers, and went to sleep. She had, after all, shared some kibble with Drudge when she was outside. Her energy is low. She's done as little as possible but sleep all day.
Can even Serena, who had all she could take of the milk her mother's body produced for four kittens, and has shown a magnificent immune system among other benefits, sleep off this poison? God knows. She's been obviously ill for longer than it took Pastel to die, but she's still walking on her feet, eating and drinking, refusing charcoal, and she's even nipped my arm as if she'd been dreaming that she were a kitten and wanted to be chased again.
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