Rescuing Etta James
A cat adoption story
On August 13, 2013, unbeknownst to me, I became a cat mom.
While I was at work that day, my husband had spotted a Craigslist ad for a free cat. He thought the cat in the ad photo was cute, so he contacted the owner to follow up. They arranged to meet at the owner’s residence, which was in a troubled neighborhood south of city limits.
When he arrived at the property, my husband found several German Shepherds, which had evidently been bred by the owner, and an emaciated, undersized cat missing half her hair. Clearly, the photo of the healthy cat in the Craigslist ad had been taken some time ago. The owner proudly shared that he’d been breeding the cat and selling her kittens.
Upon closer inspection, my husband found that the cat was suffering from a severe flea infestation. Without hesitation, he put the cat in his car and brought her to our home.
When I returned from the office that evening, my husband told me he had a “project” underway in the basement.
“Oh, really?” I asked. “What is it?”
“A cat,” he replied tentatively, studying my face for a reaction.
Curious, I walked downstairs to find a pitiful, terrified creature lying on a bed of blankets, the food and water next to her untouched. A significant amount of hair was missing from her body, and her ears seemed oversized for her petite face. She was tiny and delicate, beautiful in a way.
I kneeled close to her for a few minutes and spoke to her as softly as I could. She seemed to relax, so I gently petted the back of her neck. A very faint purr. I was in love.
My husband relayed the story of how he’d found her and described the living conditions at the prior owner’s residence. He explained that he didn’t have a plan on what to do with her, but he wasn’t going to just leave her behind. He had spent the entire afternoon administering flea treatment and picking out the dozens of eggs from what was left of her coat.
I congratulated myself on having married someone who would rescue an animal in distress, even if it had been on a whim.
So, we had a very sick cat. What now?
A couple days later when we were certain the flea situation was eradicated, we brought her up to the main level of the house. We wanted to keep her but didn’t know if she’d ever be healthy again.
It seemed the best course of action was to schedule an appointment with a veterinarian for a wellness exam and have her spayed. Her vet estimated that she was about five years old. She was carrying four fetuses, only two of which may have been viable. She had infections between her toes on all four paws. Given the abhorrent treatment she’d received from her previous owner, it was doubtful she’d received any vaccinations, so we took care of that, too.
She stayed at the clinic overnight. She’d only been with us for a week, so I was surprised at how much I missed her while she was away.
One never knows what to expect when recuing a pet. Would she have behavioral problems? Scratch up everything in the house? It was too soon to tell, but we took each day as it came, the three of us getting to know one another.
We named her Etta James and hoped for the best. Her coat began to grow back—mostly brownish gray with lighter brown patches, white on her chest and paws. She gradually got acclimated to our home, jumping up onto various surfaces, staking out cozy places to nap or bask in a ray of sunlight.
Etta James grew to love us. She greets us with a trill-like sound when she enters the room and we’ve learned to interpret the variety of other friendly noises. She enjoys touching her nose to our noses. On some level, I believe she must know that my husband saved her life, for she absolutely worships him.
On my birthday in late October, she got out while I had the kitchen door open. My husband attempted to chase her down, but he lost her as she dashed through our neighbors’ yards.
I put a bowl of her food out on the porch along with her blanket, hoping she might be able to navigate her way home by scent. She was gone for two full days. I thought we may never see her again.
On the third day, I was making coffee in the morning when I heard her trademark trill at the kitchen door. I opened it, and Etta James came bursting in like Kramer on “Seinfeld.” She returned to us and hasn’t attempted to run out of the house since.
It’s ridiculous for a cat to have two fully grown adults trained to accommodate her, but that’s how it is. She looks forward to her hairball control treats (“treatsies”) in the morning and early afternoon (“mid-day treatsies”). She is very particular about her wet food, which I use to administer her hyperthyroid medication twice a day. I realized recently that I tip-toe around the house when Etta James is sleeping.
Our cat has been a steadfast companion for us during difficult times. My husband and I endured several deaths in our respective families over the course of three years, beginning with my father’s unexpected passing in February of 2014. Etta James loves us no matter how terrible a day we’ve had, how angry at the world we might be. She comes running to us even on our worse days.
We may not know exactly how old she is or how much more time we may have together, but I’m grateful for this lovely little creature that somehow found her way to us.
About the Creator
Anita Gallagher
Governmental affairs analyst by day, aspiring writer by night. Classic film buff. Recovering Kanye West fan. Pacific Northwest.
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