At the first apartment that I lived at here in Austin, I was on the first floor and had a small balcony that was street level. This stray cat started coming around a lot and basking in the sun on my balcony. So, naturally, I called her “Pickles” and fell in love with her like I do all strays. After a few weeks, I noticed her tummy getting bigger and bigger… so then her name came to be “Whore Pickles,” as obviously the father wasn’t around and she was definitely knocked up.
Whore Pickles kept coming around and got bigger and bigger. I started dreaming of kittens! I LOVE KITTENS! I wanted to raise her kittens. I would be a good person and foster Whore and her kittens until they were big enough and then I would find suitable homes for them as, really, I wasn’t quite ready to be a full blown out cat lady at the tender age of 24.
There were two problems:
1.) how to catch her?
She was definitely still feral and ran off whenever I opened the door to the balcony.
2.) where would she and her clan live?
Certainly my apartment was not big enough to take care of my two cats + Whore + the Bastards (as I had now named the kittens).
I started plotting with my friends Cristin and Adam. Paint drawings were involved (which I only found the one showing the living situation). The answer to #1 would be a cardboard box with a string and a stick with a can of cat food in the box. I think you get the picture.
The second answer would be this:
Obviously, such a well thought out plan could not (and would not) fail. I ended up catching Whore with the box and bringing her inside my small apartment. She was such a sweetheart! With my cats safely locked away in the bathroom, she was free to roam my apartment. She sat on my lap and purred. Lots of food and loves happened and she was great.
Then things took a turn for the worse.
My friend, Cristin, from upstairs came down to meet my prized Whore. While Whore liked Cristin, she suddenly turned on me. She attacked me and sliced a 3 inch gash into my left palm. I ran into the bathroom to contain the blood spray. Whore went back to being normal for Cristin while I cleaned, bandaged and fully addressed my wound. When I came out of the bathroom, Whore came at me again.
I know, capturing and bringing a pregnant hormonal stray into your house… how could this go wrong?
Also, I get it. She was maybe 10lbs plus 5 lbs of Bastard weight. But she scared the living bejesus out of me.
Cristin tried for 30 minutes to get the cat out of my apartment and then I finally came out.
You’d think the story ended there and I wish it did. But, alas, that is not the case.
Whore Pickles stalked me for two weeks. She would wait for me on my balcony and run up to me as I got out of my car. Then she would chase after me and try to get into my apartment. It started wearing on me. I didn’t want to go home for fear that she would attack me again. Her belly was now on the ground and she couldn’t run as fast but enough was enough. Adam used another cardboard box and caught her a second time. We then taped the box up and took the furious cat to the pound. I was devastated.
One of the questions as we filled out the paperwork was, “Has this animal ever demonstrated aggression or attacked a human?” Yes. I asked the lady behind the counter what that meant. She replied that they can’t adopt out aggressive animals and asked if she had attacked me. I told her yes, but that it wasn’t Whore’s fault. Did she draw blood or pierce the skin? Yes. Apparently, that was the defining moment in Whore Pickles life: she was now to be kept alive for two weeks in order to process her rabies test to make sure I didn’t have rabies but then would be put to death. My friend asked about the kittens, hopeful. They too, the lady replied, would more than likely be put down as they wouldn’t have a mother to care for them.
I started bawling like a baby and tried to get Whore Pickles back. Adam, still emotionally stable, tried to reason with the lady but it was too late. He put his arms around me and ushered me out of the room. In an attempt to brighten my mood, he suggested that we look at the other strays and animals in the shelter. We wandered around and while I was still crying, I was distracted, and finally calmed down by the time we were done with the puppies section. We moved on to the stray cats house that they had. I saw adorable kitten after kitten and then moved on to the larger cats. Cute cat after cat stared back at me from behind the bars. And then it happened. I took a step back from the cage and started bawling again.
Adam looked at me and didn’t understand until he looked in the cage. It was my cat, Caesar, and he was in the pound? I couldn’t comprehend anything after such an emotionally stressful day and just stared, crying. A half hour later, I had readopted my cat and was heading home.
Two weeks later, I learned I didn’t have rabies.
Footnote: A question you’ll have is: how did I not know that my cat was gone? I hadn’t noticed that Caesar was gone because he was an outdoor cat and would be gone for a few days and come back.
