You Don't Choose Them - They Choose You

I (almost) always enjoy the the country boy-city girl differences between Beau and I. It can be so intriguing how these two kinds of upbringings, which I see as not just about location, but also a general cultural outlook, can differ.

One area they are almost always different in is animals. Country people tend to have a more utilitarian view of animals, and are more pragmatic in how to treat them. Killing them is just a fact of life. City people tend to be focused on animals as not just pets, but as integral members of the family. City people, like me, usually let their pets sleep in bed with them. The greatest dog Beau ever had, the one he keeps talking about to this day (though it died like 20 years ago) slept in the garage.

Recently, another difference came up, and it's one that I've always been rather touched by, even though I still don't totally buy it.

Beau strongly believes that you don't go out and buy a pet. As he's said many times, "A pet chooses you, you don't choose the pet." This is all well and good in the country where strays and dumped puppies can literally show up on your doorstep, but in the city, this just really doesn't happen, at least, rarely, save for the occasional outside cat that will gladly take any tuna you wanna leave out on a dish.

Thus, I truly believe that I choose the animal. I got to the local SPCA, maybe I visit it several times over several weeks. I go from cage to cage. I touch them, pet them, talk to them. And I wait...until I feel a connection. If it doesn't feel right, feel really powerful, I don't adopt.

A couple weeks ago we drove to the SPCA where we had adopted Tonks. She's at 8 months now and STILL hasn't gone into heat. This was a problem because when you adopt from them, they give you a certificate to get the dog fixed for free and ours was just about to expire. Well, the thing is, because Tonks is such an enormous, SPAZ of a puppy, the vet told us to make sure she goes into heat BEFORE we get her fixed, since those mommy hormones will chill her out and mature her a little.

So, we rolled into the SPCA to get our certificate time extended, but it seems we had shown up about an hour early (they have crazy public hours). We had already been driving around and doing errands in the other city for hours, and were eager to get home. Sitting around for an hour was not something Beau was willing to do.

The SPCA is on a piece of land it shares only with a large and ominous cemetary. I'm a big fan of these places, Beau is not.

Then we started to hear it - loud, long cries of a cat. Beau heard it first and started walking toward it, a short distance away from the SPCA and closer to the graveyard.

Then we saw it -- small and grey and a complete fuzzball -- an older kitten. How weird that he was out there. The second we made contact, he superglued himself to us, notably me. Every step I took, he was there, meowing and crying. I began to pet him and he cuddled and nuzzled. Awww man.

Right there was an old wooden loading chute, standing abandoned in the thick grass between the SPCA and the cemetary. Looking through the slats, you could see that three small little "beds" that the cat had made. Awww.

That cat desperately clawed his way up the chute until he reached the top slat which was at the level of my face. He tried to rub and cuddle my face, his purr about the loudest I'd heart. Oh man.

Beau, standing back a few feet said, "We're taking that cat home, aren't we?"

I looked up at him. "I don't know..."

"I don't see how we're getting out of here without that cat," he said.

The truth was, at this moment, I felt enormously conflicted. Beau is CONSTANTLY fighting me about getting more (any) animals. Even if I mention it in jest his face scrunches up like a lemon. "Noooooo," he growls, "NO animals."

But at this moment, Beau's country philosophy kicked in. "J., the animals pick you, you don't pick them. And look at...it..." He paused.

I grabbed the kitten's tail and pulled it upwards. "Oh boy, that's definitely a boy," I said.

"Yeah, he's picked you."

So, I stood there, conflicted. "But, what if he's someone's cat? He looks well-fed. And here we are, right next to the SPCA, maybe he escaped? And his eye..." His right eye was held in a permanent squint. Definitely an issue there.

You see, one of my (small) problems about living out in the country, is that it (allows) makes our cat an outside cat. Now, Fern would be one ANYWAY, that's clear, but it's absolutely necessary for us to have doors and windows open here during the day to allow the breeze to flow in from the sea. The only thing that has kept me from getting a second cat, is knowing it'd be an outside cat. And I want an inside cat. I want a lap cat, a sleep-with-me cat, a watch-TV-with-me cat. I spend a LOT of time alone up here on my beautiful remote paradise (with Beau at work), and I could use another heartbeat in the house.

But a free kitty!

So, five minutes later we were back on the road toward home, the kitten in my arms, doing that annoying cat-squalling-in-car thing. *sigh*

Over the weekend I introduced "Grey Matter" to the house. Tonks was thrilled -- another playmate! The other cat, Fern, was horrified and became nearly feral, only showing her face to grab 3 minutes worth of food before jumping out a window and back into the bush again.

Monday I drove the kitty back to town and went to the SPCA. I decided -- either he belonged with them, and if he didn't, maybe I'd just give him to them. I was still feeling...weird about the whole "choice" process. I was shocked that they didn't even recognize him, considering he lived right outside their gates. I put the cat carrier down and asked if I could look at the other animals. I walked up to the big cat cage, and put my hand against the metal mesh. Instantly, a mewing cat appeared. Seconds later, another and another. In less than a minute, I could make out about 20 cats. And this is a small, small town. Oh, man.

I couldn't possibly give him up when they had all these cats to adopt out. I turned around, thanked the lady, and drove across the street to the vet.

"He's about 5 months old, and someone's probably been feeding him, or he's been sneaking into the SPCA at night. He's hardly feral."

Racked with guilt, I set out on a small quest.

To be continued...