Sid came into my life almost two years ago, now, on my 50th birthday, one of many spectacular gifts from my husband. Our 20 year old cat, Coffee, had succumbed earlier in the year, and now rests in a coffee jar on the shelf above the TV. Jeff had said no more cats, because he was allergic. But on the Friday evening before my birthday, I was instructed to come home early, and when I did, Jeff told me to get the dog and load her into the car. He then drove us to the shelter, where Sid waited for us, hunched down in a cage with a few other felines, a small gray Persian who had been in residence for eight weeks or so, partially because he was an adult. His name was apparent to me almost instantly: he scowled up at me with his baleful yellow eyes and any meet and greet session that had been contemplated was cut short in half a second as he twisted and clawed his way back into his cage. Sorry, Roxie, the dog meets the cat session didn't materialize either.
Shy, I thought. No worries. We brought him home and unloaded him from his carrier into the small toilet room in our master bathroom, and there I spent the next two days, on and off, trying to coax him to come close enough that I could reach him.
Since then, he has gradually warmed up, but only in a Persian way. He won't be picked up. He won't sit on my lap. But he stays close and follows me wherever I go around the house, sitting just out of reach. When I took him in for his annual check-up last week, Jeff put him into the carrier and I warned the vets to get their gloves out. Instead, he was meek and acquiesent, prompting the vets to attempt to take him in back and get rid of all of his knots.
He came back seventeen minutes later, with a "lion cut" - face, tail and boots intact,but the rest shaved. He looked mad, but mostly pathetic. Lo and behold, though, he has moved from the headboard of the bed, looking down at me each night, to the bed itself, making himself a nest and settling in to sleep on the bed. A first. After two years. And all it took, apparently, was to make him cold.
I'll keep you updated on whether that ever translates into letting himself be held.
Shy, I thought. No worries. We brought him home and unloaded him from his carrier into the small toilet room in our master bathroom, and there I spent the next two days, on and off, trying to coax him to come close enough that I could reach him.
Since then, he has gradually warmed up, but only in a Persian way. He won't be picked up. He won't sit on my lap. But he stays close and follows me wherever I go around the house, sitting just out of reach. When I took him in for his annual check-up last week, Jeff put him into the carrier and I warned the vets to get their gloves out. Instead, he was meek and acquiesent, prompting the vets to attempt to take him in back and get rid of all of his knots.
He came back seventeen minutes later, with a "lion cut" - face, tail and boots intact,but the rest shaved. He looked mad, but mostly pathetic. Lo and behold, though, he has moved from the headboard of the bed, looking down at me each night, to the bed itself, making himself a nest and settling in to sleep on the bed. A first. After two years. And all it took, apparently, was to make him cold.
I'll keep you updated on whether that ever translates into letting himself be held.
Jeff is a saint.
ReplyDeleteI am allergic, too, and we have the strictest of no-cat rules in our house.
Trust me, Jeff is not a saint.
ReplyDeleteI cried when I read this. I've had Spanky 2 1/2 years now. He still cowers in the pantry at night. Doggie day camp has helped, but I know he will never be a "normal" dog. But then, maybe it takes a normal owner to have a normal dog.
ReplyDeleteThere are no normal pets. There are only uniquely neurotic pets. I've had tons in my time and each never ceases to amaze in his or her own way.
ReplyDeleteAnd she's right. He's not a saint. He secretly LOVES those cats...and they love him, too.