Feral Follies

The origin of suffering is attachment.

the Second Noble Truth

A lovely Labor Day weekend trip by train afforded me the luxury of immersing myself in Peter Matthiessen's classic The Snow Leopard.  I picked the book out of my sweetheart's collection more or less at random, and was delighted to find myself drawn in completely by the first few pages.  Little did I suspect how much this engrossing, deeply personal account of the author's mis/adventures in Zen Buddhism would inform the week to come.  This blog originated as a means of documenting my garden-related projects, but I'm going to use it today for a more stereotypically bloggy purpose: Tortured Introspection.  

Please fasten your seatbelts.

In my defense, this post IS project-related.  At the root of my suffering is the abrupt disruption of a task (like 95% of all my suffering), unrelated to gardening, but also very much tied to the seasons... Kitten Season.  (Dunh dunh dunnnh!)

Like Matthiessen and his expedition partner, the great George Schaller, I too have spent many weeks stalking and attempting to observe a wary colony of wild cats.  Far from the wilderness of the upper Himalaya, my subjects of study inhabit the industrial wasteland in which I am currently employed.  One of our company buildings abuts a narrow, fenced-off alleyway that has been home to a number of feral Felis catus for many years.  A colleague and I completed a successful Trap-Neuter-Return project back in 2009, but, in her legendary abhorrence of vacuum, Nature has replaced these original cats one by one with a new cast of fully-reproductive characters.  Since all were skittish adults by the time we noticed, taming anyone seemed fully out of the question.  Instead, I began plotting to repeat our previous gameplan: trap, spay/neuter, recovery, and release back into their original turf to manage the rodents and, hopefully, discourage fertile newcomers.

Then came the kittens.

Fuzzy bottoms and all.

One black-and-white queen ("Bess") kicked the other adult cats out of the area and began raising her six tiny fuzzies right under our noses--er, under our shed.  The kitties were shy but curious, and still plenty young enough to be socialized; no more than three or four weeks old when I first saw them in August.  "Lord," I groaned, channeling my best Jonah, "NO.  We are moving out of state in two months.  It's canning season.  I have a half-marathon in three weeks.  I'm trying to wrap things up at work.  A pack of wild kittens in the spare bedroom on top of a mass-trapping project is THE LAST THING that I need right now."  As usual, the reply was silent and internal, bypassing my plugged ears and la-la-la-la: "One.  Day.  At a time." 

Okay then.

Getting to know food, getting to know all about food...

I counted four little calicos and two tuxedos; klutzy, bleary-eyed charmers all.  The real heartbreaker was the runt, a tiny black tuxedo with one forepaw turned under like a gorilla.  Our lone smoker in that building, whose affinity for cats and regular trips outside make him my "eyes on the street", expressed his worries to me about Tiny Gorilla Tuxedo.  "That little guy, he's not going to make it," he said.  With all the bravado of a novice trapper I assured him, "He sure wouldn't out here.  But I'm gonna catch 'im."

I stocked up on traps, stinky wet cat food, and spare bed sheets.  I planned the transformation of our second bedroom into a kitten-resistant containment unit.  ("Kitten-proof" is just as mythical as "child-proof", and for the same reasons.)  I worked out a trapping scheme; Bess and babies first, then the other adults as they deduced her absence and began returning to the feeding station.  I researched kitten trapping, which requires some different methods and materials.  I obtained permission from my colleagues to turn their shed into a temporary recovery area for the adult cats after their gender neutrification surgeries.  And, of course, I fell in love with my furry quarry.  I fed them, talked to them, and observed them every day.  I began to imagine having them in my home, sharing with my sweetheart all the joys and agonies of kitten foster-parenting, until that dreamed-of future seemed as real as the present.  Finally, I wrote in my calendar right after my return to town after Labor Day: "Trap Kittens."

Labor Day evening, I rode over to set out food and water at the usual time.  The feeding station was desolate.  No Bess.  No kits.  I peered down the alleyway through the fencing, back to the winter shelter that I built for our original colony three years ago.  Reclining on the roof in the alpha-cat spot was Jackie, one of the adult tuxedos whom Bess had evicted weeks earlier.  The sight of him confirmed what my foolish, grasping heart already sensed: she was gone. 

Bess, getting accustomed to entering the trap.

Visualizing The Outcome has long been a noble truth among athletes, businessfolk, and the motivational-speaking set.  And there are certainly times when focusing on one's desire until it becomes more tangible than the present seems to make it manifest.  As a master of tunnel vision, I can personally attest that completing an arduous degree program, crossing the finish line of a long race, or getting back the cleaning deposit on an apartment are all situations in which a burning focus on the outcome is a highly effective tool.

But not every problem is a nail.  The hammer approach that works so well on the world of Tasks tends to send my fellow beings--be they loved ones, prospective employers, or wild animals--running for the hills.  Cats, like humans, are usually more attracted to a spirit of calm, benevolent acceptance, regardless of outcome.  (Is there a pill for this now?  Relevant comments welcome.)  And they react pretty much the same way that humans do to when the "I'm here to help" song-and-dance gets too enthusiastic.

Only about half of feral kittens reach adulthood, and their subsequent life (of an unaltered cat especially) is usually nasty, brutish and short.  Since they see humans as predators, ferals like mine who live in an urban setting spend much of their lives afraid, apart from having limited natural resources like clean drinking water.  In light of all this, it's kind of hard for me to keep my blood pressure low about these damn cats.  Working with animals in trouble only binds me to their outcome by, oh, the very STRINGS OF MY SOUL.  Which, I guess, makes it a pretty good exercise in freedom from desire.  Kind of like how boot camp is a great way to lose ten pounds.

My heart tears at the thought of Bess' little ones living and dying in the asphalt jungle.  I wanted so much to offer them a better life, able to love and trust humans who would give them a safe and healthy place to call home.  But my all wanting is neither here nor there.  Mother cats have their own agenda.  She may have moved them due to our excessive attentions, or for one of another myriad possible reasons.  I may get another chance to trap her and her babies, or I may not.  All I have, right now, is the choice to either accept Things As They Are, or to cry into my beer. 

One day at a time.  I'll try acceptance tomorrow.

"If the snow leopard should manifest itself, then I am ready to see the snow leopard.  If not, then somehow (and I don't understand this instinct, even now) I am not ready to perceive it...

and in the not-seeing, I am content."

Peter Matthiessen

The Snow Leopard