Roger hissed in protest at Lisa, an animal control employee who had begun pulling him from his cage. He made himself heavy with resistance, attempting to retreat back into his metal box. His eyes widened and pupils enlarged as he bit Lisa’s gloved hand. I could see in her eyes she was unfazed. She had met many Rogers.
Lisa placed Roger next to me on the cement floor, the kind of floor that’s easy to disinfect during ringworm, calicivirus and other outbreaks. Roger quieted as he began sniffing my hand, curious about this change in his daily routine.
Roger was skinny with a medium-length black coat, which was matted and dulled with dirt and lack of attention. On each front paw was an extra toe, making them look like adorable mittens. In his green eyes, I saw a yearning for love and affection. Underneath his roughness was a vibrant young cat who needed a real home, with soft places to sleep, windows for critter watching and above all, somewhere that felt safe.
I was scared of Roger. He had been living in shelters for weeks and now was in the “backroom.” That’s where the animals go that are considered not adoptable, either now or ever, for behavioural or health reasons or both. Roger had been biting potential adopters. No one likes that.
He had just one more chance — that was, if a foster from a rescue organisation was willing to work with him.
He burrowed his wet nose into my hand, asking for pets. I touched him cautiously. When I heard the steady motor of his purr, I relaxed a little. Still, it did not take him long to nip me, even while purring. He wanted love, needed it, but also wanted to protect himself. It was overstimulation aggression — a common behavior from cats who have been under a lot of stress. I could relate.
I had once been like Roger. When I was in my late teens, I was so unhappy with myself that I avoided eye contact in mirrors and wore my hair draped across my face. I drank too much and spent many days sick with hangovers and lack of sleep. I snarked at cashiers and servers because they seemed like safe people to get angry at. I was a terrible friend and family member because I was so in my head, worrying I wasn’t good enough while acting like an asshole in an attempt to protect myself. I wasn’t contributing positively to society. I was a producer of chaos and hurt.
Still, people loved me. My family loved me and so did the people who reached out their hands to help when I was ready. They saw past my ugliness. I brought that past with me when I looked at Roger. I had a deep desire to answer another’s cry for help.
It was the end of November and I was busy with Christmas preparations. Just two weeks earlier, my latest foster cat had been adopted. I questioned whether I should be taking another one, and a tough one, so soon and right before the holidays. My mom questioned it too. “Why do you always make things so hard for yourself?” she wanted to know. My friend Suzi said, “Just adopt one already. You deserve love too.”
The shelters were overflowing. Unfortunately, the holidays are usually a busy time for shelters, a time when strained employees, like Lisa, also need breaks while the number of available foster homes decreases. People surrender their animals for many reasons, including financial and emotional pressures or health issues. Some can’t find pet sitters for holiday travel. Some animals run out an open door or are abandoned when guardians move. I once fostered kittens who had been found in a purse, inside a dumpster — literally thrown away, as if their lives didn’t matter.
“Rescue work isn’t easy, for anyone. Not everything worth doing is easy,” I told my mom. I told Suzi, “Sometimes rescue work is what love looks like.” I didn’t expect them to understand. I had been watching Roger’s status for days to see if someone else would tag him. He was running out of time. There likely would be no one else. His chance was me.
On our way out of the shelter, Lisa gave me Roger’s story. He had been rescued from a drug house where he had been living with 20 other cats. First, he was shipped to another shelter where he was neutered and then transferred to her shelter and put on the adoption floor, all within a matter of days. Then to the backroom. It had been six weeks in a cage for him. It was easy to see why he was stressed.
Roger was strangely quiet on the way back to my house. Now I understand that silence as relief; he was free. When I was young and surrendered to others for help, it came with a quietness too. I had let go of my fight.
Once home, most rescue cats will explore or hide. Not Roger. Love was what he wanted. I gave him regular, healthy meals, which he heartily ate. I cut out his matted hair and brushed the rest. As the days went by, he relaxed, beginning to trust in his safety. His nipping lessened.
As it turned out, Roger wasn’t a tough case at all. He was the biggest cuddle bug I had ever fostered, even snuggling with a teddy bear when I wasn’t available. It’s amazing the transformation that can happen when fear dissolves. It’s only then when we can be our best selves, our true selves. In that way, cats are no different than us.
I would watch Roger and wonder about his past: What was it like in the drug house? Did he have to compete for food? Was there a child whom he could cuddle with at night? Was he loved? I thought it more likely he was not even noticed.
In my condo, Roger was king. He laid on my lap while I worked or else on one of my many cat perches where he could watch turkeys and bunnies. He had a catnip banana, glitter balls, feather toys and many other toys he could play with. Or we would play together on my breaks. I tried to make him happy and, in return, he made me happy.
Right before Christmas, I decided he was ready for his forever home. I didn’t want to keep him longer than was good for either of us. I also wanted to make room for another cat in need.
I posted his profile on our rescue’s website. His pictures showed a fluffy Roger with a shiny, healthy coat. I called him ”handsome” and ”friendly” and described him as a lap cat who loves to zip around my home and pounce on toy mice. He had not completely stopped using nips to communicate, but I knew an experienced cat guardian could learn to read his body language and know when he was overstimulated. I explained this in his profile. I wanted to make sure his forever home would accept him as he really was. I knew he would still be perfect for the right adopter.
I received several applications. My favourite was from a professional artist and her husband, whom I interviewed on video chat. They showed me their kitty palace — a spacious home full of critter-watching windows. They were experienced with cats and had a soft spot for black ones, who are often the last adopted. Their previous cat had died and she was looking for another muse.
On Christmas Day, the couple picked up Roger. He was going home.
The rest of Christmas was hectic for me, but my home still felt quiet without him. My family came over for brunch and gifts. We watched “Elf” that evening and Roger was not there to cuddle with. I missed him. But I also felt content that I had been part of something important. It was the best gift I had given that year.
It’s been four years and I still get updates about Roger. Roger is king of his palace and now he has a queen friend, Eleanor. They zoom around from floor to floor, watch birds, and play in cardboard boxes. In the daytime, he visits his mom in her studio, and at night, sleeps with his big mitts wrapped around her.
I keep Roger’s story close to me. It reminds me that what animals — and people — look like on the outside often does not match what’s going on inside. Roger appeared to be mean. But his prickliness was from being scared. That sounds like many people I have met, including me at times. Everyone deserves love. Everyone deserves second chances. When we give those things, sometimes we get to witness their transformative power. And sometimes, that looks like an adorable kitty who spends his days lying in a sunbeam in his mom’s art studio, playing hide and pounce with his sister, and having a warm, safe place to sleep each night.
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