After ten years in the Japan Cat Network shelter, Cassie was perfectly house trained. She used a litter box, grazed without over indulging on dry cat biscuits, and dug her claws into scratching posts and never the furniture. There was just had one rule:
Don’t touch the cat.
Any sneaking suspicion that you were about to break this rule came with a firm warning: two quick paw slaps and a hiss. It was employed with a conservative guess. I was once dealt this punishment when trying to replace a freshly heated pad in Cassie’s basket. The pad was reassigned to warm a nearby pile of books. It was a situation that left me with two problems: Firstly, I wanted to love this cat and give her all the affection she had never received. Secondly, I did need to occasionally take her to the vet.
Tackling the first of these issues became the project for the next year. On advice from the cat shelter, I bought a collection of sticks with fluffy ends. While anything with an opposable thumb was deemed a cat guillotine of insurmountable danger, a fluffy stick could either be an entertaining play thing or an accepted tool for cheek and head rubs. We particularly enjoyed having our ears gently sawn off.
Cassie also loved toys and this was our main bonding time. Every evening, this twelve year old senior matron would leap like a kitten after string, fishing toys or even just chasing a small plush mouse all over the apartment. During this time, Cassie would occasionally pause and look at the TV, especially if it was showing a bird or other quick moving object, including my curser when trying to search for a Netflix show. I therefore tried her with cat TV, putting on an eight hour YouTube video on birds. I learned the hard way to put the TV on the soft carpet before starting the video (fortunately, the first attempt had not resulted in any damage!). Cassie would watch for some time, offering a cackling commentary on how she would like to catch and eat each and every bird, while that squirrel would be delectable with a side order of cat biscuits.
I fed Cassie treats from my hand so she would get used to my smell, and realise that at least a stationary thumb not flaunting its opposability did not present overt danger. A Japanese cat treat known as “churu” was particularly good for this. I’ve no idea what is in it, but it’s cat crack. Few can resist its plastic-wrapped call.
Gradually, we inched closer and I was occasionally able to swap the fluffy stick for a brush when Cassie was lying down and relaxed. She began to sit on the cat hammock attached to the window above my desk.
Then, it all went wrong.
Cassie is FIV+ and has herpes, both of which make her sensitive to upper respiratory infections such as colds. At Christmas, Cassie started to develop a cough. It wasn’t a bad cough, but I was anxious. While Japanese businesses are open over Christmas, they are usually closed over the New Year. If Cassie’s cough worsened, I might have to wait to bring her to the vet. A cough was also the first symptom of Tallis’s serious illness and the sound shook me to the bone. Like it or not, on Boxing Day we were going to the vet.
We did not like it. I can safely say that no one enjoyed the experience.
Cassie shot around the apartment to avoid the carrier, panting in panic. I bashed my knee so hard that it was black and blue for the next week. I’ve no idea how I even got her in the carrier. I think she misjudged a turn and ran inside.
Limping, I brought Cassie across Tokyo to see the vet used by the shelter. Used to the shelter’s range of rescues, the vet calmly inquired whether Cassie was “shy”.
By which I believe he meant, “is this is a murder floof intent on destruction that you have barely contained in that carrier?”
When we confirmed that yes, indeed, this was a murder floof, he produced a… laundry net. Skilfully, he slid the net over Cassie and gently drew her from the carrier. She went completely calm. Did she assume that she had been put into the washer on a blanket cycle and all hope was lost? Or perhaps determined she had returned to being a cat foetus. Regardless of what was going on in my cat’s head, she received a brief examination, a claw trim and tablets for her cold.
Then proceeded to ignore me.
I mean, for real. This cat can hold a grudge.
Unable to resist wiggly cat toys, she did emerge after a day to play but refused to sit close to me and brushing was absolutely out of the question. We were back to the beginning. And so we started again.
Three weeks later (I kid you not) Cassie was prepared to sit on the window hammock again… providing I didn’t move. But gradually we were rebuilding. At the start of April, Cassie even approached my outstretched hand and permitted a very brief stroke. And a few weeks later, while she was splashed out in the spring sun, I was able to swap the fluffy stick for my hand and give her a proper stroke for the first time.
But then. We had to return. To the vets.
I didn’t want to go. I knew Cassie would be stressed and I would be blamed for the stress, panic and world hunger, and be ostracised. But Cassie’s cough had become bad again, and I could not shake the feeling we had not really got to the bottom of the problem. The only thing worse than being ignored by your own cat is missing something that might be serious. This time, I lost half a living room curtain before I got her in the carrier.
I had taken my previous cat, Tallis, to an English speaking vet in Tokyo. The vet there was very nice, but the clinic was fancy. It was the kind of place where you were the only one using a cat carrier because everyone else had come in with pet strollers. Could such a place handle murder floofs? I was a little doubtful. I could have brought Cassie back to the shelter vet, but a friend had recommended another vet which offered an ear-to-tail check-up for senior cats. This vet had a community cat program where I had previously brought feral cats for TNR (Trap, Neuter & Return), so I was confident in his murder floof defence. As he did not speak English, I had to ask my friend to accompany me and we watched as he deftly wrapped Cassie in a towel and casually spirited her away for an X-ray.
Cassie, cuddle puss.
After a thorough examination, Cassie received a moderately clean bill of health. Her lungs showed evidence of persistent cough, but that was not uncommon with cats who had lived in shelters. I was given a course of new tablets to calm down the inflamed area and recommended to use a cat food that was good for kidneys (a common problem for older cats).
We went home. Cassie stuffed herself in the back of the closet with my rollerblades. She paid me minimum attention for the best part of a month.
But by June, we had surpassed our previous record. Cassie had discovered she loved being brushed and I heard her purr for the first time. And by September, I could tickle her with my hand and then confidently stroke her; no fluffy sticks in sight!
However, it was not only patience that had been the key. Cassie began to make rapid progress due to the appearance of a second cat that turned up on my balcony. And that cat was Norah.