I finally got a pet. A cat. I found her lounging under a tree, at a “golden community” located behind the parking lot of the Wal-Mart at the Green Acres mall at Valley Stream. I was doing my usual union organizer thing, but stopped to pet this unusually sweet and friendly stray cat.
One of the residents, Pat Day, caught me petting her, and commenced a month-long lobbying effort to get me to adopt the cat. Lots of strays gather at the retirement community, since the residents are perfectly happy to feed and care for them. I’ve been thinking about adopting a pet for some time, so I was tempted by this cute little rusty-colored calico with an awful gravelly meow. But I was worried about my long hours at work, and how little I would be home for it, not to mention cat hair everywhere and cat claws scratching up all my furniture.
Well, Pat kept working on me, and when she called me to report on the kitty’s visit to animal control, which turned up the fact that the cat had been “altered” and declawed, I ran out of excuses. It’s a terrible thing to declaw a cat and then send it out to fend for itself in the suburban “wild.” Clearly, my home is better than that. Plus, my furniture would be safe!
After spending the first night crying and behaving badly, she seems quite content and at-home by now. She sleeps on my bed, and jumps up to meet my hand when petting her. She’s chasing her tail around the living room as I type this. I can’t imagine why anyone would abandon this sweet little cat.
I don’t feel inclined towards naming her. It’s kind of arrogant of us humans to name cats and expect them to respect our nomenclature. My brother has seized this opportunity to give the cat a new name everyday. So far, she has been General Whiskers, the Queen of Spain, Mork (not Mindy) and Sandy Duncan (that last one was mine; it felt right at 8 am). Why, you too can name her for a small donation.