ALWAYS ROOM FOR ONE MORE

ALWAYS ROOM FOR ONE MORE

Susan W. Hudson

One day in the winter of 2007, I walked into the grooming room at the county animal shelter, where I volunteered, to find several people talking to the ceiling.  Of course, I was curious.  Shelter employees and volunteers alike had formed a tight little circle.  They were craning their necks and baby-talking at the ceiling.  When I asked what they were looking at, they said, “the attic cat.”

“What!!!”  I exclaimed in surprise. “The attic cat,” they repeated. I broke through the circle and looked up. I saw that one of the ceiling tiles was askew. Sure enough, there in the corner, peering down at us with wide green eyes, was the most beautiful little valentine-shaped face I had ever seen.

“Oh, he’s been up there about a year,” explained the cat technician.  “He slipped away from me while I was cleaning his kennel.  We couldn’t catch him, so he made the attic his home.  He seems to be quite happy up there.”

Though I was flabbergasted, I knew this was NOT a case of negligence.  I really loved the cat technician. She was very conscientious. If you have ever held a gaggle of wiggly kitties in one hand and tried to clean their pooper with the other, you will understand how easily this could happen. 

From that day forward, I started calling him every time I checked in to volunteer at the shelter.  “Here attic cat, come here.”  He did.  I could hear the pitter-patter of his little feet as he came running across the attic floor to talk to me.  He liked me!  He liked the sound of my voice.  I was in love with him.

I learned that the cat technician put water and food out for him on a top shelf in the food-room, and he came down during the night to partake.  She had even been able to get him to come out during the day for a very brief period to take a treat or two.

I dragged out our step ladder and set it up close to his food and water bowl.  I got treats and climbed up.  I stood on the top rung and called him.  He came to see me.  He got down from the attic and onto the shelf while I was there.  He took treats, started flirting with me shamelessly, and finally, let me touch him.  He was solid silky black except for a poof of white fur on his neck. I named him “Magic.” 

I was so excited; I nearly fell off the ladder!  After a week or so of this, I was able to get him to come down.  What a beautiful boy!  He was a soft, black, domestic shorthair.  When we got him down and looked him over, we found that along with the small tuft of white fur on the underside of his neck, he had a larger patch of white on his belly.  The shelter veterinarian gave him a complete physical and declared him healthy – a little crazy perhaps, but healthy.  As soon as he had vaccinations, was neutered and microchipped, and was deemed good-to-go, he came to live with my family.

I declared that I was just going to foster him for a while. After a few days at home, he evolved from “Magic” to Sammy.  Nothing else worked.  He was Sammy. And, he was ours for sure. 

My son, Kyle, fell in love with the little rascal and spoiled him unmercifully. Sammy sat in Kyle’s recliner, straight up just like his human did. We took dozens of pictures of him sitting there with the remote control on his lap (staged a little bit, of course). He slept with Kyle, but he did share the space with his other housemates. He was in the minority. At the time we were home to four girl cats: Shadow, Sneakers, Fluffy, and F.C. And then, of course, we had the ruler of the domain, my little girl dog, Orla. Even she liked Sammy.

So, including me, the girl/boy ratio was 6 to 2.  You go, girls. So, wouldn’t you know it, I found a small white male toy poodle, with big black eyes, who had been surrendered to the shelter by his owners. He was eight years old and had, suddenly, started “urinating in the house,” they claimed. He had clearly not been groomed recently, so he looked pretty rough. I was totally convinced that under all the unruly fur was a handsome boy.

Almost all of his teeth were wobbly. I suspected that he was a provider in a puppy mill, but got too old for the job. The shelter veterinarian surgically extracted most of his teeth. After he recovered from surgery and was declared healthy, he was updated on his immunizations, neutered, and microchipped. Then he joined our family. We took him to a groomer, and sure enough, he was so handsome that people stopped us on our walks to admire him. The haircut brought out the big dark eyes and his angelic face. He didn’t waste a second before teaching us how smart and loving poodles are. Look out girls, we boys are catching up. 

Sammy and Gabe were opposites in many ways. Sammy was a big cat, but still very agile. He was not at all interested in playing kitty games. Gabe was a tiny little thing, but he would chase a tennis ball until he was exhausted, or he had exhausted the human who was throwing the ball. The main thing they had in common was their love of their new home and new people and even the girls. They both loved Kyle, above all else. They slept with him. They sat together on his lap. Sammy groomed Kyle. He learned to nip at his chin and wake him up in the middle of the night begging for a midnight snack. But, he never pierced the skin. Gabe slept all night long like a rock. How happy we all were.

Gabe’s shelter name was Gabriel. We changed it only slightly, to Gabraham (rhymes with Abraham) Lincoln Hudson. And, Kyle dubbed Sammy: Samuel Adams Clemens Loomis Sewell Hudson. 

The important lesson these boys and girls have taught us over the years is that every dog and every cat has a different personality. There is no normal. We loved and respected each of them in the way they so richly deserved. And, there’s always room for one more.