By Rosalie Tirella
Up until a few years ago, I fed and cared for a feral cat colony in Green Island. I fed my colony, which grew to about 14 cats and kittens of various ages and sizes, for 10 years. A decade of committing to feeding and caring for what now seems like scores and scores of dumped/wild cats (as cats died others replaced them) every day. Every day! A decade of half-frozen paws, bloody car accidents, bobbed/half-chewed-off, puss-encrusted cat tails. A decade of calling “Here, kitty kitty” in the rain, in the slush, in the snow, in the humidity – no matter how crappy or busy or happy I may have been. A decade of counting, observing, bonding with, fretting over felines that nobody loved or wanted.
A decade of falling in love with every one of those cats and kittents – only to see them die horrible, premature deaths.
A decade of “trapping” young feral cats and getting them to a vet so he/she could spay or neuter them so that the heartbreaking feral-cat cycle could stop. So that when these cats died – horribly, prematurely – they would leave no offspring behind to suffer the way them had. So that the colony, eventually, would come to a humane end.
A decade of “trapping” sick/dying feral cats – the emergencies – and rushing to the vet with my feral kitties too sick – dying – to put up a fight when I held them close or gingerly placed them in a blanket on the car seat. A decade of the stench of a dead cat – one the rats hadn’t gotten to. The one I hadn’t been able to save.
A decade of trying to … save lives, save living things from brutal events, save my inner-city world, even. (Neighbors, for the most part, admired my dedication and were glad to see the cats’ suffering alleviated. I especially think it was good for the kids to see love, to see love in action. To see animals grow strong and healthy, to see love given unconditionally to creatures that were – before I came upon the scene – pariahs.
I remember the cat I named Midnight (I named them all). It was the only time I got physically close to one of my cats. My lovely feral Midnight, a long haired black Persian kitty, had “show cat” written all over him. I was feeding him since kittenhood and had gotten him neutered and vaccinated when he was very young, so he never got into fights over mates, territory, etc. His face was perfect!
Anyways, with the great care Midnight was getting from me, he was healthy enough to groom himself. So his long black fur shone auburn highlights in the sun! His eyes were green! Every day when I visited my colony to feed everyone – huge 14 pound bags of cat chow that were donated to me by folks at local animal shelters – Midnight waited … for me. His pert little upturned nose peeking from behind one of the junked cars. Then he would prance to my car trunk – where the bags of cat food were stashed. He’d make circles and figue 8′s near me and purr and pur and then go to one of his brothers – the rest of the cats were too shy to get very close – and rub against him – as if to say: This nice lady is gonna be gving us some yummy food and fresh water! I’m so happy!
Sometimes as I was driving down the street to the junk yard, I’d see Midnight running from a nearby yard, running after my car to get to meet me! (or the food!) He knew the sound of my car’s engine!
I was so proud of Midnight – and all the cats in my colony that year. I had trapped my pregnant feral “Sassy” (another black cat – with short hair) and got her to a nonprofit group that fostered her as she had her seven kittens. All the kittens were tamed down by the foster mom and placed in real homes! (Sassy came back to the colony and was hit by a car a few weeks later.) My other cats looked so healthy! Everyone had made it through the brutal winter! I did too, having tromped through two feet of snow in my high boots – breaking path and clearing out a hole in which to put food and water. Placing their food under a junked car or inside the old shed was tricky with all that snow – but I did it! Once I found a person – a homeless guy! – lying beneath the truck! I stepped back – he was quite courteous – and let me feed me cats.
But the day I went to feed Midnight and the other cats I heard: “Mew, mew, mew, mew, mew, mew” – a tiny cry. When a cat cries continually, it’s in pain. Good God, I thought, one of them’s been hurt!
So into the depths of the junk yard Rosalie goes looking under and over everything … crying and calling to her beloved cats, Here kitty, kitty! until Midnight limps out, looking dazed. Blood all over his rear paws.
Oh, babe! I say to Midnight, and then rush to my car for my big blue soft blanket and softly, softly approach Midnight and put the blanket around his shoulders and pick him up and crade him in my arms and take him to my car. I place him on the passenger seat. He is looking far away … .
Don’t cry! I cry to my cat! I love you! I love you!
And then it’s a mad race to the vet, practically mowing down several people as I wind and whip my way through traffic.
Feral cats are like coyotes or racoons. They do not – cannot – want to be touched by humans. So to be so close to my Midnight, to hear his little cries after having survived the crappy winter with him, after having riased him since kittenhood, after having him live for three or so years – ancient for a feral – made for a personal crisis. Like rushing your sick dog – or friend – to the doctors.
To make a long story short. The vet bill came to $300 or so. And the vet put down Midnight. He had lost too much blood, the vet said. “Can you amputate?” I said, sobbing like an idiot. Did I have the money to spend on the operation, the vet wanted to know. Did I want to spend the money on a cat that would just end up back on Worcester’s mean streets?
No, I said, to both questions. I did not.
And then I left the animal clinic – alone – and drove home – alone.
You see them as kittens. So cute and plump from mommy’s milk. You run after them trying to catch them. But it’s too late. They are “feral.” You love them anyway. You call your nonprofit pals and you arrange for help and the sad love story begins. I once thought one of my feral cats was pregnant and rushed her to the vet. She was not pregnant but huge – bloated – from peritonitis. Fluid in her lungs/belly. So that was what all the crying was about. All the suffering. I paid the $300 bill and went home alone.
My Green Island feral cat colony! A decade of tears! A decade of animal emergencies – and even if you got your feral cats spayed or neutered and gave them all their shots you still lost them. To assholes who ran them over in the spring. Joy riding. To jerks who poisoned them because they were healthy enough to do a little exploring in their gardens. To the cold. To the dogs. To the rats, even. (if they are very young and tiny)
I tell you, 10 years – two cat colonies – it was like being in the middle of some kind of urban war. There I was nurse Rose. With no medical degree, no equipment, no nothing really, strong-arming the angel of death! And I – the feral cats – would always (eventually) lose.
A few years ago, as I was packing to leave for my new apartment, I got a phone call: this person was moving far away (another state) and did I want to take over this person’s feral cat colony? Feed and care for them.
I nearly fell over backwards. My answer: “Oh, God no! Please! No. No. No. I am so heartbroken…. I can’t help you now.”
I needed a respite.
I am still in “recovery.”
