The ride home took too long. I could tell they were terrified. I talked to them softly telling them we were going home where they’d be safe. I told them nobody would ever hurt them again. They quieted a little.

At home I set the carrier down in the living room and opened the door. After a short pause Georgia darted out and under the loveseat. Missy shot out and disappeared into my bedroom. I could see this wasn’t going to be easy.

I put some food and water where they could find them and just let them alone. The next day they were nowhere to be found. That afternoon I went out to mow the lawn. When I came back in Georgia was lying on the couch. When she saw me she ran back under the loveseat. I just let her be.

Missy was living under my bed way back in the far corner. I put some food and water there for her. She’d come out when it got dark and help herself. I talked softly to both of them and never moved quickly around them.

Neither of them ever responded to the names the woman gave me. Over time these names morphed into Dorda and Mitty. These were our names for our new life together. They responded to these names and so did I.

Dorda would lie on the couch within three feet of my desk now. She even liked me to scratch behind her ears. She’d let me know when and I was happy to oblige. Otherwise I just let her alone.

Mitty was still under my bed. She’d been under there for over a month and I was afraid she’d never come out. One afternoon I went to the kitchen for coffee. When I came back in Mitty was at the other end of the couch. She hissed at me, but she didn’t move. I just let her be and talked softly. I gave Dorda a scratch behind the ears and Mitty took note.

I looked a little later and she was lying on the floor. A little later and she was closer to me. She moved ever closer as I typed and let her be. The next time I looked I didn’t see her. She was right next to me by my chair. I slowly reached down and scratched behind her ears. She just lay there.

That was the turning point. Soon Mitty was jumping up on my lap when she wanted attention. Dorda took longer for this, but she does now too. They don’t like to be picked up, but there’s really no need for that. Mitty gets jealous if Dorda’s on my lap. Dorda gets jealous sometimes too.

They have the run of the house. Why shouldn’t they? It’s their home too. They spend most of their time in the livingroom with me, or napping on my bed. They don’t fight, although sometimes they get a little testy when they’re playing tag. I laugh ’til the tears roll down.

Mitty loves plastic bags. She chews and licks them and I worry she might choke. Dorda isn’t into plastic bags. She loves the shower curtain. She likes to jump up on the bathtub and smack the shower curtain. They both love to roll around and play with orange or tangerine bags.

I don’t get it, but then, I’m not a cat. 

Best,

They lay in the two far corners. They looked miserable, defeated and terrified, as if they knew what was coming. After hearing their history I could understand why they seemed so scared.

The woman said their names were Georgia and Missy. She said they’d belonged to her Grandmother and she needed to find them homes. I asked how old they were. She said three or four.  She said they’re sisters and added that they might even be five or six.

She told me I could just take one if I wanted. I knew why she said this. Georgia is a small almost completely black cat. She has white tips on her paws and a white bib. Missy is larger and her fur is a mixture of tan, copper, and black. She also has white paw tips and a white bib.

The woman said nobody had ever taken Georgia. She said Missy had been taken a number of times but had always been brought back. I told her cats that have lived their whole lives together shouldn’t be separated.

She said Missy had just come back the night before. I asked why she’d been brought back. She said that when people get Missy home she hides and they have to search the house for her. These people had found her and put her back in the carrier. She’d been in there two days before they brought her back. The woman said the carrier had urine and feces in it. She said that’s why she had them in the cage.  

As soon as I saw them in that cage I’d decided they were going home with me. I have no use for people who mistreat animals, especially cats. Putting a cat in a cage because you don’t want it lying on your couch is despicable. Keeping it in a carrier for two days is unforgivable.

She pulled Georgia out of the cage and gave her to me. Georgia didn’t like being held and got a little wild eyed. I gave her back and back in the cage she went. Next I was given Missy. She didn’t like being held either. She buried her face in my shoulder and tried to disappear. She went back in the cage too.

Both cats have had their front claws removed. I hate it when people do this. I’ve asked more than one how they’d like to have their fingernails ripped out by the roots. The usual answer is that it’s just a cat so who cares. I care more about the cat than I do about people like this.

I’d heard enough and I needed to get them out of that cage. I told the woman I’d take them and went out to get my carrier. I needed to get them home and free to move as they chose.

Why is this post titled Dorda and Mitty? Read on and find out…….Part 2

Best,

He was a tiny tiger (tabby) cat about six weeks old. I called him Banjo. I hadn’t brought a carrier so I sat him on the front seat next to me. As I started for home he jumped over on my lap, curled up and went to sleep.

For the first few weeks I left Banjo in my bedroom when I went to work. I was afraid that if I gave him free rein he’d hurt himself because he was so small. Everyday when I got home he was waiting right behind the bedroom door.

Soon Banjo grew big enough for safety and I let him go wherever he wanted. When I left for work he’d jump in the window and watch me leave. He was still there, waiting, when I got home.

Banjo followed me everywhere. If I went to the kitchen for coffee he was right behind me. If I went downstairs to do laundry he bopped down the stairs behind me. He’d sit and watch and then I’d carry him back up.

I have a bad leg from a car accident. Sometimes I’d soak my leg in the bathtub to help the stiffness. Banjo would come in and curl up on the throw rug. When I’d had enough soaking he’d follow me back out.

I spend a lot of time on my computer. Banjo would jump up on my desk, plop down on my mouse pad, curl up and go to sleep. “Banjo, stop bugging me” I’d say. I wasn’t serious and I’d just let him be there. I’d give anything to be able to say that again right now.

When Banjo was just nine months old I heard him crying. He was in his litter box. It was the most terrible sound I’ve ever heard. I called the Vet and was told to bring him in immediately.

After examining Banjo the Vet said he had a urinary blockage and needed to stay for a while. She said the treatment should fix him up in a few days. The thought of leaving him there with strangers ate me up. I asked if I could visit him and she said it wasn’t allowed.

Five long days later they called and said I could bring him home. When I got there he jumped in my arms just like the very first day. They gave me some medication for him and some funky food. I thought it was over.

When we got home Banjo lay on the couch. I gave him the medication with an eyedropper, but he wouldn’t eat. The Vet said he might not eat for a while so I wasn’t worried. Eventually we went to bed and he slept right next to me. He was still there in the morning.

I got up to make some coffee. While in the kitchen I heard that terrible cry again. Banjo was in his litterbox and couldn’t go. I took him back to the Vet immediately.

She said he was blocked again. She said she could do surgery to remove the crystals from his bladder, or I could put him down, or I could take him home and let him die a slow and painful death. I asked what his chances were with the surgery. She said almost none.

She left so I could say goodbye. I held him for about ten minutes and tried my best not to bawl like a baby. I’d do enough crying over the next few months. I’m tearing up as I write this and it’s been over five years.

I kept saying, “I’m sorry, Banjo. I love you.” over and over. Banjo looked at me like he knew what was coming, as if to say, “It’s okay. I understand.” The Vet came back and asked if I wanted to be with him at the end. I couldn’t and I handed him over to her.

I’ve hated myself ever since for that act of cowardice. He died with strangers instead of with me. Banjo was the best friend I’ve ever had and I let him down. I miss him every single day.

Best,