Well, the topic may be SLIGHTLY misleading. Let me tell you my story.
My name is Geordan. I'm a 21 year old theatre technician in Toronto. I live with one roommate in a fairly large apartment downtown.
I come from a home with NO cats -- allergies dictated only one (nonallergenic) dog. I loved her to death, but she's no cat.
About a year ago, I met my girlfriend. She is what you could call a "cat person" -- she and her mother currently own four cats, and have totaled SEVEN in her lifetime (old age and an unforunate car claimed the other three.)
When I moved in to my new apartment, she nudged me gently that I may want an animal companion of my own. I went home to the small town I grew up in, to the local humane society. Just "browsing," we walked into the cat gazebo, and IMMEDIETLY a little black and white cat leapt onto my shoulders. For the half hour we spent looking at all the cats, the little bugger wouldn't leave us alone. We decided that was PROBABLY a sign.
We inquired -- he was just over a year old, named "Oreo," had been at the society for about six months, and had been "surrendered" by an older man who had far too many cats. We were warned that "Oreo" had severe digestion problems (Which manifested in messy, messy litter) and a nasty drooling problem. Regardless, he was a SWEETHEART, so I adopted him.
He moved to Toronto with me -- I immedietly learned that he had NO problems when fed proper food. As well, his drooling stopped the instant we left the shelter.
He was christined "Napoleon," as he was the new ruler of the domain and pretty small, considering he was a full grown cat. He was loving, playful, and gentle... but there was a problem.
Napoleon NEVER SHUT UP. He couldn't move without meowing. Constant, constant, unceasing meowing. This went on for a few months, and my girlfriend's mother figured he might be lonely, having ALWAYS been with other cats. It was decided though it would be NICE to get another cat, I couldn't afford another adoption, and my roommate wouldn't allow it.
Well, out of the blue, my girlfriend and her family came home one night to find a feral stray on her porch, scrounging for food. She was very very emaciated, weak beyond measure, and couldn't stand. They took her into the mudroom, gave her water and food and litter (and kept the other four cats away from her) and tried to figure out what they were going to do. The next day she went to the vet; the vet diagnosed that she had been a stray for her entire life, which was just over a year, which was his educated guess. She was treated for malnutrition, an injured leg, and infected eye and ear, and a nasty mouth injury. She recouperated at a friend of the family's house; said friend of the family also paid for all the veternary work, as he is a single middle aged man who loves animals. She was temporarily called "Merlot," and it was decided she was to be given to me, to keep Napoleon company. She was spayed, declawed (much to my chagrin, as Napoleon kept his claws) and given a little more R&R before she came to live with me.
But a hitch: by now she was recovered, stronger, and more herself, and herself was FERAL. She wouldn't let anyone near her; any cat or person approaching her would be greeted by the most bloodcurlding shriek you'll ever hear from a cat; any physical contact was grounds for immediete, vicious attack. She would bite and scratch until you left the room -- you simply couldn't come near her. So she was dropped with me and everyone ran away.
I decided that there was no way this cat was going to be a lost cause. Over the next few weeks, I was very gentle and consistant with her; I showed her that I would always feed her, water her, and clean the litter box. I let her hiss if she wanted to hiss; if she wanted attention she had to come to me, and if she bit or scratched, I just ignored her. Napoleon did much the same.
Well, Josephine (her new name: "Josephine" was the name of Napoleon Bonaparte's wife) has been with me for the better part of a month now, and the changes are extreme. She's been here long enough that she gets disciplined with Napoleon: hissing meant kitten-holding (She got over THAT fast) and digging in the garbage or hopping on the desk means a spritz from the bottle. The cat that was once vicious and feral is now affectionate and sweet. She jumps up in your lap to cuddle, sleeps on the bed with me, allows me to pick her up (but not without a little bit of a struggle) and plays with Napoleon.
So that's my success story. Two very different cats, both rescued. Both considered "hopeless," but I knew they weren't. They're my sweethearts.
Best part? They look like they're from the same litter. Both are very small, slender, and are 50/50 black and white spotted.
So I'm a cat person now. That's my story for now... thanks for reading this long and rambling post!
My name is Geordan. I'm a 21 year old theatre technician in Toronto. I live with one roommate in a fairly large apartment downtown.
I come from a home with NO cats -- allergies dictated only one (nonallergenic) dog. I loved her to death, but she's no cat.
About a year ago, I met my girlfriend. She is what you could call a "cat person" -- she and her mother currently own four cats, and have totaled SEVEN in her lifetime (old age and an unforunate car claimed the other three.)
When I moved in to my new apartment, she nudged me gently that I may want an animal companion of my own. I went home to the small town I grew up in, to the local humane society. Just "browsing," we walked into the cat gazebo, and IMMEDIETLY a little black and white cat leapt onto my shoulders. For the half hour we spent looking at all the cats, the little bugger wouldn't leave us alone. We decided that was PROBABLY a sign.
We inquired -- he was just over a year old, named "Oreo," had been at the society for about six months, and had been "surrendered" by an older man who had far too many cats. We were warned that "Oreo" had severe digestion problems (Which manifested in messy, messy litter) and a nasty drooling problem. Regardless, he was a SWEETHEART, so I adopted him.
He moved to Toronto with me -- I immedietly learned that he had NO problems when fed proper food. As well, his drooling stopped the instant we left the shelter.
He was christined "Napoleon," as he was the new ruler of the domain and pretty small, considering he was a full grown cat. He was loving, playful, and gentle... but there was a problem.
Napoleon NEVER SHUT UP. He couldn't move without meowing. Constant, constant, unceasing meowing. This went on for a few months, and my girlfriend's mother figured he might be lonely, having ALWAYS been with other cats. It was decided though it would be NICE to get another cat, I couldn't afford another adoption, and my roommate wouldn't allow it.
Well, out of the blue, my girlfriend and her family came home one night to find a feral stray on her porch, scrounging for food. She was very very emaciated, weak beyond measure, and couldn't stand. They took her into the mudroom, gave her water and food and litter (and kept the other four cats away from her) and tried to figure out what they were going to do. The next day she went to the vet; the vet diagnosed that she had been a stray for her entire life, which was just over a year, which was his educated guess. She was treated for malnutrition, an injured leg, and infected eye and ear, and a nasty mouth injury. She recouperated at a friend of the family's house; said friend of the family also paid for all the veternary work, as he is a single middle aged man who loves animals. She was temporarily called "Merlot," and it was decided she was to be given to me, to keep Napoleon company. She was spayed, declawed (much to my chagrin, as Napoleon kept his claws) and given a little more R&R before she came to live with me.
But a hitch: by now she was recovered, stronger, and more herself, and herself was FERAL. She wouldn't let anyone near her; any cat or person approaching her would be greeted by the most bloodcurlding shriek you'll ever hear from a cat; any physical contact was grounds for immediete, vicious attack. She would bite and scratch until you left the room -- you simply couldn't come near her. So she was dropped with me and everyone ran away.
I decided that there was no way this cat was going to be a lost cause. Over the next few weeks, I was very gentle and consistant with her; I showed her that I would always feed her, water her, and clean the litter box. I let her hiss if she wanted to hiss; if she wanted attention she had to come to me, and if she bit or scratched, I just ignored her. Napoleon did much the same.
Well, Josephine (her new name: "Josephine" was the name of Napoleon Bonaparte's wife) has been with me for the better part of a month now, and the changes are extreme. She's been here long enough that she gets disciplined with Napoleon: hissing meant kitten-holding (She got over THAT fast) and digging in the garbage or hopping on the desk means a spritz from the bottle. The cat that was once vicious and feral is now affectionate and sweet. She jumps up in your lap to cuddle, sleeps on the bed with me, allows me to pick her up (but not without a little bit of a struggle) and plays with Napoleon.
So that's my success story. Two very different cats, both rescued. Both considered "hopeless," but I knew they weren't. They're my sweethearts.
Best part? They look like they're from the same litter. Both are very small, slender, and are 50/50 black and white spotted.
So I'm a cat person now. That's my story for now... thanks for reading this long and rambling post!