January 4, 2021

 

 

Turner was a funny kind of cat.

We originally adopted Turner and his mom, Sassy, to be barn “cats”, destined to live outside and catch mice in the stable. The woman in charge at the shelter told us neither were adoptable due to being feral, yet, a career of stalking nuisances would be suitable, and so they came home with us.

Their barn cat careers didn’t last long. Adopted in late summer, they came to feel at home with the horses and seemed happy roaming the stable, hay barn, back field, and the garden for edible creatures, but it was not meant to be. When winter came and the nights got colder, we became concerned that it was too cold for them to be left out.

So, one night, we brought them inside the house. It was. Just. For. One Night.

And they ever left.

And I mean NEVER.

Within a week of that cold night, we were buying kitty litter and mouse traps.

By the next morning, these unadoptable, feral cats, became the closest thing to domestic cats as any could be. It was a miraculous transformation of sorts. Sassy, within those few night time hours, discarded her mousing instincts and transformed herself into an affectionate lap cat. Turner stayed true to being Turner, but adapted to house life by hiding from the world. He became the cat no one knew we had.

Turner was never meant to be a lap cat. He wasn’t mean, but was shy, at times un - trusting, and if there ever were a feline psychologist to consult, I am sure that that professional would diagnose him as “schizoid”. We had named him Turner for these reasons in the first place – at one moment he could be friendly enough, but then and without warning, he would “turn” on us, becoming defensive and skittish. He most likely had a real, kitty type, personality disorder.

Turner stayed to himself, but especially when he sensed new activity or people other than us in the house. He would retreat to one of his secret hiding places and not come out until things got quiet again. Some of his hiding places, such as under our bed, we knew about, yet there were places that he would disappear to that we never found. He hid so much and so well that people did not even know we had him. Our housekeeper, who came weekly, for years, was not even aware that he existed. When he was found out, our housekeeper tried to tempt him out of hiding with treats, but without much success.

With us, though, he did come out, but on schedule. He had his predictable patterns and habits, or routine, that he went by.

It always started with him hopping up on our bed every morning when we woke up, looking for scratches and pets. He always asked by nipping at my arm, or lightly patting me with one of his little paws. When I would get up to go downstairs, he would jump out in front of me and walk ahead of me down the stairs and then to his food bowl, where he would rub against my leg. He never ate until I scratched his back, so I would, and then he would.

For the rest of the day, he would follow patches of sun that came through the windows and lie in them. He would begin in the dining room in the morning, move through the kitchen in the afternoon, and finish the day in the family room. Every so often he would change it up, and spend part of the afternoon on our bed.  I can say, he truly lived his life following the sun!

Every so often, he would get up and wander over to the side door, and scratch his claws on the side trim! Over time he shredded it to the point that there was no trim left in that spot, and I had to replace it. His other favorite place to scratch was the garage door trim. We resigned to the fact that we could never stop him from doing this, and since trim was easy to replace – cheaper and easier than furniture! -  we quietly sighed and let it go.

In the evening, again he would find me and lead me to his food bowl and ask for a scratch. We would also play a little game at this time – I would grasp his tail and gently hold it while he paddled his little feet on the traction less linoleum floor. Our horse vet, who gives Pat his chiro, told me to hold Pats tail as he moved forward, and the light pressure it caused would stretch his spine and help keep it aligned. And so, I did the same with Turner (hold, not pull), and he liked it.  When I let go, he would give me the looks and back up to me wanting another go of it.

Finally, when Kath and I went to bed, Turner would show up on the bed for some “good night scratches”. After that, he would retreat to some place known only to him, and settle in.

I really miss old “Turn-Turn” (the nickname Stephanie had given him).  I miss our daily rituals, mostly the morning nips and pats he gave me when I got up. Since I retired, he got used to me being around and would curl up on the couch next to me as I worked on my computer or read – not on my lap, but close enough for Turner.

I always think back to the day when the woman at the shelter told us he would never be friendly. And I think about what Turner taught me – that we all can change given the chance.

 

laying in a sun spot

 (2006-2020)