Not long ago, I wrote "Me+Quincy+Lindsay=3?" Lindsay being the cat "Linda" I hesitantly adopted from my kind-hearted vet, with the provision that if things did not work out, the vet would welcome her back with open arms. Which he did. And which she deserves, because she really is a sweet and loving cat but she needs to see a psychiatrist because the cat was definitely mental in her short time here with me and poor Quincy, my sweet (and sane) little calico girl.
I am not one to "return" an animal as though it were a blouse I didn't like. When I adopt, it is a lifetime commitment for me. But something about this cat, whom I'd only met twice at the vet's office, seemed a little off. However, my foolish-stupid heart once again kicked in and I decided to give her a chance...and provide Quincy with some company too.
Her absolutely worst act of insanity was following her cat instincts, and finding the tiniest opening in my tree-branch-and-fishing-net covered terrace to JUMP on to the 2" railing, OUTSIDE those 'protective' branches and fishing net. The first time was bad enough. Breathlessly, I grabbed her with no problem, and added more screening, and more obstructive tree branches, etc. However, the second time I found her out there, I had to wait for her to
s-l-o-w-l-y walk the 15 feet or so until she passed all the obstructions and I could safely stick my hand through an opening to grab her by the scruff of her neck and drag her inside to safety, my insides turned to tapioca pudding.
Now, I am not a person who's crazy about heights. I couldn't even look at those pictures of Philippe Petit walking a tightrope between the World Trade Center buildings without getting nauseous, then AND now. And since I live on a rather high level, I was not about to spend all my time monitoring the insatiable curiosity of a crazy cat, since I constantly caught her eye-balling new ways of getting through the increasing obstructions. When I blocked her access to the terrace from inside, she began tearing at the window screens to get out there.
"I don't know why you say goodbye..." Oh no? How about this?
In addition to her Flying Wallenda tendencies, she also had a voracious appetite and, after devouring her own full bowl, took off to find whatever new 'hiding place' I could find for Quincy's meals. When it came to food, this cat had some kind of genetic defect...if I put down TEN 5-oz. cans of food, she would have eaten every one of them. She was not starved, she was fed regularly by the vet, so chalk another neurosis up for the mystery cat. And she would not allow me to brush her (tumbleweeds galore) nor hold her without getting all squirmy and meowy-annoyed.
The vet kept his word, and accepted her return this morning. As I opened her little carrier cage, she BOUNDED out, happy to see all her other little cat friends being fostered there. My worst fear, coming home to find a depressed and lonely Quincy, was completely and totally unfounded.
Quincy is a happy little cat again, content to have just ONE roommate again.
And so am I!
