I have a problem. My neighborhood is overrun with an assortment of feral cats. There are short ones, fat ones, skinny ones and many, many mangy ones. They are under my deck, in the barn, scratching at my basement door, and urinating on my car tires. The one saving grace is that my cat Seia stalks them from window to window each night, which provides not only exercise but entertainment for the slightly overweight pear shaped gal.
You must understand that by nature, I'm a cat lover and until I moved to this house thought I would do just about anything to save a cats life.But make no mistake, these aren't your average purring, tuna eating, lap loving house cats. No, these are wild human hating beasts with daggers for claws and howls that would send any coyote running for the woods never to return.
So, as any new (again) to the country living person would do, I sought out local help. I walked to the store up the road and asked the cashier Bam, a tough looking 40ish woman with a tattoo covering her entire chest and creeping up her neck, if she had noticed just how many cats called our little slice of coastal heaven "home." She rooted through her purse, a large L.L. Bean back pack covered entirely with Harley Davidson patches and safety pins and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. Without making eye contact, she scribbled down a phone number and slid it over the counter as she reached for her soft pack of American Gold cigarettes and lighter on the counter. For a moment I stood in fear, wondering if this number would be the answer to my prayers. A sharp shooter? An animal trapper?
"Call them today. Tell 'em Bam sent you."
Walking home the guilt set in. There in front of me sat a dirty emaciated cat in my neighbors driveway sunning itself on this beautiful foggy August morning. I thought of my own cat and how someone had abandoned her after a nasty divorce, bringing her to the Augusta Humane Society in the dead of winter, telling the staff that she was no longer wanted. As I reached my own driveway, as if anticipating my presence, the cat jumped up on the hood of the car, looked directly into my eyes, and paused just long enough to release the content of its bowels just before retreating to the nearby woods.
The piece of paper Bam had just given me, secured in my pocket that was
almost destined for the recycling bin now begged me to take action. And with my own cat like reflexes, I pulled my Black Berry from my pocket and began to dial. With each digit pressed into my phone, my guilt eased a little more. This was best for everyone, right? These cats carry disease and may never be able to be rehabilitated. Most area shelters were overrun with cats and they were actually waving adoption fees due to overcrowding. Even if these cats were captured, thier future was uncertain and at best, bleak. Extermination seemed to be the only logical option.
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| Seia, 2010 |
The first ring came sharp and shooting out of my phone and was barley heard over the sound of my own heart beat. A woman's friendly voice greeted me on the other end.
"Good morning, Waldo County Humane Society."
