BOOKreMARKS: The Workout that Wouldn’t End

I opened my new reading year with Grayson—a sweet, short memoir by competitive open-water swimmer Lynne Cox. In it, she details a single morning of her daily three-hour training in the Pacific Ocean—a morning that began like any other until…the water shuddered. This occurs in the sixth paragraph; then the morning (and every subsequent graf) gets stranger.

Cox is only 17 and has already broken numerous long-distance swimming records at this point in her life. She’s schooled in visualization techniques, resilience, and discipline. Where others cower from fear (like me, whom you’d never find in a dark, 55-degree ocean at 5 a.m.), Cox confronts and controls. Better still, especially for those of us who are armchair travelers, she remains aware and in awe of the marine life she encounters. She introduces readers to aloof sea turtles, chatty dolphins, a manic stingray colony, and flying tuna. We learn tidbits about each of these creatures and how oddly they’re behaving that morning. We get drawn in to Cox’s fear-induced urge to finish her workout ASAP and high-tail it home until…we meet “old” Steve near shore.

Steve owns a bait shop and has long been a source of wisdom and friendship to Cox. Today he’s not in his usual spot and Cox worries. She heads closer inland yet he waves her away. He explains that a baby gray whale has been following her like a puppy for about a mile. She can’t go closer to shore—it’ll beach the little guy—and she can’t stop swimming now. She must help the infant find his mother, his only food source at his tender age (baby grays drink about 50 gallons of milk per day), or he’ll die.

An already exhausted Cox rallies to save the 18-foot youngster. She takes her mission quite selflessly and compassionately, in spite of how the cold is affecting her, in spite of having no idea how to find one particular female whale in the Pacific. Though the baby—whom she dubs Grayson (a gray’s son)—acts healthy and playful, Cox knows every minute counts to reunite him with his mother. Especially considering the 5,000+-mile migration to the Arctic the whales have ahead of them.

As Grayson’s rescue grows longer and more complicated, Cox takes the advice of another old seaman who keeps an eye on her during her morning workouts. “Sometimes answers come out of time and struggle, and learning. Sometimes you just have to try again in a different way.”

Cox experiments with new dives, new ways of holding her breath longer, new ideas about what little Grayson is thinking and how he might have slipped away from his mother. And in all of this, Cox continues sending positive thoughts/energy into the Universe, hoping it will help the cause, and Grayson continues following her around the Pacific.

Don’t let Grayson’s slim dimensions fool you. At first glance, it’s a stirring rescue tale. But at closer read, it’s a love song to the ocean—and an instruction manual on what’s possible when we open our hearts and minds to the unknown.

[Gray whale mother and calf: photographer unknown.]

Rescuerama: A Mystery in Progress – Part 4

Note: As I wrote earlier, Djuna wasn’t crazy about having her photo taken. What’s more, her true color never showed in the pics. So instead of reusing the few photographs of her I have, I’m relying on famed (and unknown) artists to illustrate my tale. In case you missed a previous installment of this series, here they are:

Part 1            Part 2            Part 3

The next morning I searched the Lost/Found category on Craigslist. It doesn’t make for cheerful reading. I wanted to run out and search for every dog and cat listed—especially Abby, the old Great Dane whose family placed a new ad every few days, begging for sightings of her. How does anyone see a Great Dane on the loose and NOT do something? Or not even think it odd?

As for Djuna, one ad was hopeful—the photo looked like her—and I wrote to the family. If they weren’t the right match, I’d post an ad of my own.

But it was time to return to the vet—with the cat in case we had to start the whole scanning process over again. Once more, Djuna took it in stride—no wiggling, no whimpering, no howling. I held her in my arms, swaddled in a bath towel, and she watched out the window, taking everything in and enjoying the ride.

Indeed, Djuna had to be scanned again, but we left the vet’s office with the name of the last known guardian (a phrase I will be using repeatedly, so going forward, I will refer to the last known guardian as “LKG”). We were on our way, I thought. I’d just search out all the people in Lexington with that name, then contact those who lived within a couple of miles from us. Surely we’d be able to find out whom Djuna belonged to.

Of course, things are never as simple as we want them to be. Though the guardian’s name wasn’t exotic or even unusual, it wasn’t common either. At least not to me. In Lexington, however, it’s a popular name and can be spelled a variety of ways. I tried them all and came up with a short list of addresses to visit.

We left Djuna at home for this mission. Instead, I took a flyer that had her picture and description on it and the name of the LKG. I explained the situation and asked residents to call or e-mail me if they even recognized the name of the person I was looking for. Oddly enough, I didn’t have to leave the flyer on any doors because everyone was home! But no one got me closer to Djuna’s family.

When we returned to our apartment, there was a message from the family I’d e-mailed earlier. I was so excited I could hardly comprehend what was written. I had to read it again: Their cat wasn’t microchipped and hadn’t come from a shelter. Djuna wasn’t theirs, for both were true of her, and now I had to write back saying as much. I felt awful for them.

At this point, another day had passed and we were no closer to getting Djuna home. I’d created some flyers on her behalf, which we got out before being stymied by the weather, but they were by no means enough to get the job done. The shelter was closed on Sundays, so Djuna would stay with us through the weekend. (Yay!)

When I finally accepted that the microchip was getting us nowhere, I changed course. I made a list of a handful of Web sites on which to advertise Djuna’s story and, after searching on each of them for a report of her disappearance and finding nothing (Why? Didn’t anyone miss this little jewel?), I posted a FOUND CAT report on each.

Then I reworked my flyers to include the name of the LKG. I hoped someone might recognize her name and let her know that Djuna, whether still the woman’s or not, was homeless once again. If nothing else, I hoped that I would get a lead on the person who last had Djuna.

Djuna enchanted me every time she sat up on her back legs like the
cat in this photo. And like this cat, she wanted to be part of everything.
Whenever food or drink was involved, she insisted on “deep sniffing.”
Never tasting, just breathing in the aroma with her nose a hair’s breadth
away from the fare.

Meanwhile, little Djuna was swiftly taking charge of our home.

She still didn’t talk. Except during that moment when I first introduced her to the windowsill. No sooner had her paws touched wood than she raised her back and hissed. And growled—tiny, nearly inaudible growls. I assumed she was intimidated by the pumpkin outside. “It’s okay, Little One,” I assured her. “It’s just a pumpkin—it won’t hurt you” and WHAM! The pumpkin flew off the ledge and in its place, after slamming into the window, stood the very tomcat I’d rescued her from the night before. Djuna had not been afraid of a silly little pumpkin; she was upset about the lurker outside! I promptly closed the blinds and scooped her up. The neighborhood cat didn’t bother her again and she didn’t utter another word.

We did whatever her stare demanded. If she wanted the blinds open for bird-watching, open they were. If she preferred tuna to the new kibble I’d bought her, so be it. If she wasn’t following us around, she was luxuriating on the shearling (it had belonged to our pooch once upon a time) we’d placed under the coffee table for her—which became her “fort.” If we were on the couch, she was between us for belly rubs. If we were in bed, she cuddled up beside us (but NOT—no no no!—under the covers; her choice, not ours). And if someone dared to shut the bathroom door, she made quick work of getting it back open.

As she relaxed in her surroundings, we caught her playing with an acorn a few times; otherwise, she wasn’t interested in interacting with toys. Who needed toys when you had an overactive imagination? Djuna held sudden bouts of play with imaginary friends—chasing, stalking, pouncing, twirling, and flying across the room. These bursts ended as suddenly as they began and they cracked me up every time. I’d forgotten what great entertainment furballs are.

Oh dear. The very thought of precious Djuna ending up in a cage disturbed me. I didn’t have the heart to turn her over to the shelter, and I couldn’t keep her. I HAD to find her family. I couldn’t let her distract me from that goal.

On Monday, with a list of stores and intersections in hand, we posted our new-and-improved flyers around.

On Tuesday afternoon, as I headed to a friend’s house for a previously scheduled get-together, I stopped at another neighborhood clutch of stores to post more flyers. When I returned home later, I found a voicemail waiting for me.

to be continued…

Rescuerama: A Mystery in Progress – Part 3

“Hello?” asked a female voice through the phone. “You left a note on my door about a cat?”

Well, I’d left a note on the only front door of the duplex, which opened into a foyer between two apartments. “Yes—”

“I don’t have a cat. You’ve got the wrong address. I’ve lived here for a long time and I’ve never had a cat.”

Hmm. The cat isn’t very old; her lodging at this address couldn’t have predated the woman’s residence there. Was the microchip info a sham? Who adopts an animal and lies about their identity?

Oh, right. Students do. This is a university town and, as in many other university towns across the U.S., students miss their pets at home, pick out new pets at local shelters, then bend the truth a bit in order to get around restrictions for adopters. Later, each spring when students return to their parents’ homes for the summer break, they leave behind (read: abandon) their adopted pets. But that’s another story.

“—moved in two months ago and her cat is always getting into my side of the basement…” The woman on the phone was talking again and I was trying to make sense of it. Next I heard, “She let the cat out and told me she hoped it would find a new home.”

Excuse me? Did I hear that right? She didn’t WANT the cat anymore so she simply opened a door and nudged the cat OUTSIDE?

The woman on the phone warned that if I returned the cat to her neighbor, the “rehoming” process would just start again. She needn’t have worried. As far as I was concerned, her neighbor shouldn’t, and wouldn’t, get the cat back.

Now what? As I wrote earlier, the shelter the cat came from would take her in again. But my new focus was the woman who put her outside. Should I report her to animal control for endangering an animal? Should I report her to the animal shelter for reneging on her commitment to care for the feline?

Furious, I stewed over this for the better part of the evening. I wanted to scream at that woman just as I’d screamed at the fellow who slammed his pooch onto the ground, back first.

On the other hand, the cat in my arms was healthy and sweet and clean. She may not have known how to play with toys, or didn’t care to, but that’s hardly a sign of neglect. She couldn’t get enough of our affections, yet that doesn’t mean she’d been deprived of attention before. It appeared the only wrong move her guardian had made was sending her outdoors.

As I puzzled through the possibilities, the phone rang. It was the cat’s neighbor. Again.

“You’re not going to believe this—”

Try me, I thought.

“But my neighbor’s cat came back.”

Hunh? “Excuse me?”

“Her cat—his name is Piper—just came home, so the cat you have isn’t hers.”

“Oh.” Geez. Now what? I still had to find the guardian of the cat in my house AND I felt compelled to help poor Piper. “Please tell your neighbor to take Piper to a shelter. If she can’t or won’t do it, please tell her I’ll do it for her. But she should NOT put Piper outside again.”

“Yes, I’m going to have a talk with her after she gets her kids in bed.”

“Okay. Call if you need me. And thank you so much for letting me know about Piper.”

I was still angry. I know I’m bucking an age-old mythology* that cats want to be outside, that they can survive fine on their own. They do, and they can. But unless we—as the guardians responsible for keeping our cats safe and healthy—can protect our cats while they’re outside, we owe it to our cats to keep them inside.

So how did Djuna get outside? Was she put there or had she escaped? I wouldn’t know until I found her guardian, and that meant getting a name. We would have to return to the vet and beg for more information.

Until then, more lollygagging was in order.

to be continued…

* I’ve since learned from a retired animal cruelty investigator that letting a cat fend for itself outside is legal in the Bluegrass. (Not so for a dog, but that doesn’t stop people from doing it.) So apparently anyone can adopt a cat and then turn it outside to make its own way. No food, no water, no interaction, no medical care. We have responsibilities toward dogs but not cats? It may be legal, but it makes absolutely no sense to me.

Rescuerama: A Mystery in Progress – Part 2

After much discussion, my husband and I agreed to keep the cat overnight and take her to a vet the next morning to be scanned. We gave her water, which she eagerly lapped up. Our food options were less successful.

We tried treats (i.e., food we had on hand) that our own cats had loved—yogurt, cheese, eggs, halibut. Finally, the obvious came to my husband: tuna. The cat tried it and gave me a look that could only be interpreted as “You figured it out! I’m so very grateful.” In contrast, had our old Burmese been in the same situation, she would have shot me a look that meant “Now how bloody hard was that, hmm? Pathetic human…”

My husband set up a litterbox with sand, which we had in preparation for making luminaria for the holidays. The cat used it and we were grateful. It looked as if we’d all make it through the one night together.

I’m not sure how to describe the little lost cat (whom we shall call Djuna from now on for the sake of practicality). She’s unlike any other cats I’ve known. She immediately acted comfortable in our home. Or perhaps she is simply self-assured regardless of location and situation. She is exceedingly polite; that is, she seems to wait for permission to do anything she wants—whether it’s sitting in my lap or wandering into another room. She doesn’t meow. Her communication style is completely nonverbal. Djuna either stares at us until we comprehend her wishes or she touches us with a paw. She’s a startling amalgamation of our previous animal companions: tiny with a plush coat like our Tortie, intelligent like our Burmese (sans the ’tude), calm like our special-needs cat and, like our pooch, not interested in having her photograph taken. She follows us everywhere, cleans herself every few moments, and delights in bellyrubs and cuddling. We started wondering who sent her to us, what she was trying to tell us, whether the souls of our other animals were, indeed, all crammed together inside her… But then she took the trip to the vet in stride and we knew she was her own, singular self since none of our other creatures enjoyed traveling.

 A vet tech scanned Djuna and found—EUREKA!—a microchip. We waited in a small room of the Victorian-house-turned-animal-clinic for news of the cat’s guardian. As much as we loved having a cat in our lives again, we were relieved that soon she would be in the arms of the person who no doubt missed her terribly.

The vet tech returned to our room with mixed news. The phone number listed with the microchip was defunct, but we could try the address listed. The cat had been adopted from the Paris Animal Welfare Society (P.A.W.S.), which said it would take Djuna back and re-adopt her.

Our hopes weren’t dashed. It was too early to surrender Djuna to P.A.W.S. First, we would visit the address listed on the microchip.

It was a duplex not far from our neighborhood—IF you were travelling by car. But a tiny cat? We shuddered to imagine how many busy streets she had crossed to find her way to our bushes. We wondered how direct her path had been and who had noticed her along the way.

No one was home at the duplex. So I left a note, explaining that 1913 __________ Road was the address given to P.A.W.S., that we had no current phone number or name, yada yada yada.

Late that afternoon, I received a call I wasn’t prepared for.

to be continued…

Rescuerama: A Mystery in Progress – Part 1

A cat fight erupted in our bushes Thursday night and I dashed outside to break it up. A bit of loud clapping did the trick.

I looked around to see the perpetrators and in the quiet came high-pitched, muffled mewing. Turned out to be the young pit-bull mix across the street, who was showing his concern for the action in my yard.

As I walked down the sidewalk and continued looking for the cats, one of them came running toward me and threw herself down on her back in my path—hinting at a bellyrub. She was certainly friendly, but I’d never seen her around the neighborhood. I obliged her wish for contact, yet I felt like someone was watching us. Sure enough, a neighbor’s cat was staring at me with dagger eyes. Ah, now I knew both parties behind the altercation.

The neighbor’s cat typically follows me around and comes running to me whenever I call his name. Now I’d betrayed him with a tiny, inconsequential female who had trespassed his turf. Or whom he was romancing. He stalked toward us and I scooped up the female, telling the male to go home.

I felt terrible. Whether he wanted to fight her or woo her made no difference to me. As far as I was concerned, they sounded the same and both sound terrible.

I walked up the street to check with a neighbor whose indoor cats sometimes escape for an outdoor spree. Unfortunately for the sprite in my arms, the neighbor’s cats were all present and accounted for. Now what?

I returned toward my home and a concerned party guest from across the street stopped me to see the cat. She’d heard the commotion and wanted to make sure the cats were okay (she has four of her own). Since neither cat was hurt, she suggested I simply put the cat down so she could find her way back home. I would hear this same suggestion from someone else later.

Without a plan of my own, I tried it their way. I didn’t feel good about it. My husband distracted the male cat in the front yard while I released the female in the back. But when she started to follow me, I knew I couldn’t abandon her to the night and the multitude of dangers that lurked there.

She would stay with us until the morning, when we’d get her scanned for a microchip.

to be continued…