‘At 80-plus years old, I just adopted a kitten!’
by Connie Cronley
What was I thinking?
When my last pet, the world’s happiest dog, died a few months ago, I said, “That’s it. No more pets for me. At 80-plus years old, I’m too old.”
Even when friends urged me to get another dog or cat, saying, “You’ll be lonely,” I was firm. “I’m done,” I told them.
And I was. The last couple of years were exhausting and expensive as my dogs and cat aged, declining with debilitating diseases or mysterious ailments. Their deaths were heart-shattering. I was sad they were gone, but I wasn’t lonely. I could sleep through the night without waking to care for them. My time was selfishly my own.
“If I ever do get another pet,” I said lightly, “I’d like it to be a male orange cat.”
Did the universe think that was a sincere wish? One day, I happened to see a male orange cat in a cage at a veterinary clinic awaiting adoption. Flash. Bam. Alakazam. There went my heart. And my good sense. I adopted him on the spot.
The Japanese liken this to the samurai approach: to go without hesitation. Most of us call it impulsiveness: a behavior characterized by whim without thought to consequences. Hello, my life.
I prefer to think of it as headlong into heart. I would name him Oliver, an allusion to the Charles Dickens orphan.
I did hesitate and conducted a cursory search. “Should an elderly person adopt a pet?” I asked Google. “Absolutely” was the answer because it can relieve loneliness, lower blood pressure and increase activity. The rest of the advice was to adopt a senior pet because a kitten or puppy requires intensive training and high energy. Oops. The orange kitty was not quite a year old. Too late, I learned that a 1-year-old cat is the equivalent of a human’s terrible twos or a difficult teenager.
It is important, I read, to make plans for the pet’s care after you’re gone. I did this, securing the promise from two young, able-bodied friends to take him. I will set aside funds for Oliver’s care. I knew one woman who arranged for her house to remain open, with a caretaker/housekeeper, after her death for as long as her dog Biscuit lived. I won’t be able to go that far.
To prepare for Oliver’s arrival, I solicited the help of a friendly felinophile, a person who loves cats and was trained by cat behaviorists at shelters. He helped me catify my house, providing plenty of vertical spaces (ledges, towers), scratching posts, beds, a cave, a hammock, a litter box and interactive toys. I followed his advice about food: no dry food; instead, moist food emphasizing a raw, meat-based diet. No free-feeding. Oliver will eat at regularly scheduled mealtimes. I was ready!
Oliver arrived, and for two days we just looked at one another. Each of us thinking, “Who are you?” And then the behavior began. Pouncing on my feet with needle claws. Nipping my fingers and toes with little spiky teeth. “Now I get it,” I thought. “Now I understand why someone put you in a cardboard box and left you at the vet clinic.”
First, a trip to a vet to have his nails clipped. Second, an order of books by cat behaviorists telling me, slightly too late, what Oliver needs to adapt to his new home. They tell me I’m not training; I’m parenting. Big difference. Oh, the guilt of all the mistakes I have made for so long with so many cats. My ignorance and my arrogance astound me.
I’m learning how to correct the nipping without scolding, yelling, water spray or an aerosol spray can, but with positive redirection instead. How to let him initiate petting, if there is to be any. Since he is a young, energetic cat, how to engage in plenty of play to allow him to burn off energy. How to respect his private space.
Important things take time. I have the luxury of time to spend with him. I love watching him hone his instinctive skills of stalking, crouching, pouncing, aerial leaping and tumbling. I admire his agility, curiosity and balance. I watch this miniature tiger in amazement, a miracle of the natural world. Watching closely, whether it’s the seasons of a garden or the development of a young cat, is a gift.
Oliver and I are learning how to live together. After all these years. After all my pets — four dogs, 12 cats and a fostered litter — I have a chance to do it better. Some days, I believe that developing a good relationship with this young orange cat is the most important work I’ve ever done.
