That Time I Adopted A Scaredy-Cat

Most people nowadays wouldn't think that Bristol has a problem with anxiety. At holiday parties, she makes her debut, always stopping by every set of legs in order to receive her allotted pets. I always warn people that they might not see my cat, and they are always befuddled when she's sociable, telling me that she's the sweetest, softest cat they've ever met. For obvious reasons, guests have a hard time believing me when I tell them it took six months for her to try sitting on our laps. I'm always proud of Bristol for socializing at parties; I know how much she worked to learn to interact with people.

I met Bristol in a ten-by-ten cat room that definitely had too many cats. I know it is better to not rescue from problematic shelters, but this was a special occasion. When I saw her, it was love at first sight. I'm not sure what made me feel this way, it could have been that she was a Torbie (a Tortoiseshell, Tabby mix); it could have been the softness of her fur. However, I tend to believe it was not a physical, but rather spiritual connection that we had. I had been sitting there, petting all the extroverted cats, (so, most of them), when a shimmer of stripes passed along behind the makeshift towers of cat crates. Watching her, I noticed she stayed to the sides of the room. She didn't dare come near the kitty-chaos in the middle. Bristol made her move. Since I had the full attention of at least half-a-dozen cats, the food and water bowls had been left completely free. Bristol made her move. Her body language indicated timidity, with haunches forward, and ears swiveling to survey every sound. Her tail was held low, not right next to her body, but with only the smallest flip upwards at the end. She had nabbed a couple pieces of food, when she looked at me. For the briefest moment we made eye-contact—her eyes were a brilliant golden-amber, matching her fur undercoat. The moment was long enough. Another cat had spied Bristol and moved to the food bowl. He hissed at her and batted. She hissed back, then disappeared behind the plastic jungle.

After the encounter, I asked the lady at the counter about the cat I had seen. She asked me to point her out. It took a few minutes to spot her body slinking in the back, but the lady knew her. "That's Bristol," she said, adding, "she came here as a kitten. Someone had left her in a kennel along the side of the road." The lady didn't tell me anything more about Bristol. She was determined to introduce me to the other cats that fit my needs a little better. "I don't mind a challenge," I told her, "I've had cats my entire life. This time, I'm going to rescue a cat that needs me." She talked about all the other challenging adult cats at the shelter. She was trying in particular to find a home for a depressed cat, and I almost went for her, but I couldn't stop thinking about Bristol's beautiful eyes.

I came back the next week with a brand-new cat kennel and treats. "I want to adopt Bristol," I told the lady at the counter. "All right," she said, and took my kennel. I watched from the window as she tried to grab Bristol. The moment the counter lady touched her, the room became a whirlwind of fur. The soft kennel was not up to the challenge of an under-handled, under-socialized cat. Bristol had been in that room all three years of her life, and was determined never to go in a kennel again. The lady from the counter came out of the room, cat-less, and stuck her head into the dog section. A moment later, another lady appeared. They got a large hard crate and proceeded into the ten-by-ten room. Bristol darted in circles, half running, half leaping over the plastic jungle and other cats. To their credit, the other cats didn't move much. They got out of the way when necessary, but were otherwise unbothered by the two women pivoting to catch the whirlwind. The assistant finally caught Bristol, who immediately jumped out of her arms and was then caught by the counter lady, who shoved her in the kennel. It was painful to watch. Here was my cat, experiencing what was clearly one of the worst days of her life. In the kennel, she shrunk back as small as she could become. Instead of yowling, she was silent, except for the occasional loud purr. I could tell she was trying to comfort herself, and as the harbinger of her terror, there was little I could do to help. I put some treats inside, and a blanket, and we made the forty-minute trip home.

My spouse and I knew we were getting a timid cat, so we had made all the preparations we could. We had blocked off all potential hiding spots in the house, except for ones that were easy for us to access and had open views of common spaces. For the time being, however, we knew our house would be too much for our new cat, so we set her up in the guest bedroom. The bed was on a high platform that I could easily crawl under, and other than the litter box, a cat bed and a few toys, there was nothing else in the room. We opened the kennel, and Bristol darted into the middle back of the underside of the bed. We set up food and water, and after a while of trying to interact, I knew that I had to give her space, even though all I wanted was to comfort her in my arms.

The next three months were slow. My spouse and I took turns going into the room with Bristol and doing relaxing or menial tasks. I would lay down on the floor near her spot and watch TV on my phone. My spouse read to her from books for their Grad classes. I tried to pet her a few times, but that seemed to hurt rather than help our relationship in the beginning. Around the third month, I discovered Cat TV, and set my laptop up with bird videos on YouTube. She began to come out from under the bed to investigate the birds, and then would hide if I moved. After she learned that she could move throughout the room with my presence without getting hurt, she opened up to play. She loved to play, and through our nightly wand sessions, she started to trust me. At first, I would drag toys along the side of the bed, and she would engage from the safety of her lair. Slowly, she began to emerge. Once our relationship had this level of trust, I got her to eat treats off the back of my hand, and finally, she began to let me pet her.

It was another month before we released Bristol into the house. We were able to pet her inconsistently, and on a few occasions, even gotten her to softly purr, which was much different from the loud purr of terror that she had exhibited that first day. From then on, the focus was on how to get her out of hiding places. Despite our best efforts, she had managed to unearth holes and crevices by dislocating her body and slinking into spots so small that it was impossible for her to be there unless she was wind itself. Eventually, we removed the blocks from under the couch that made it hard for us to get to her, and we reinforced the other blockages that were more successful.

After six months of this routine, we had finally come to terms with the fact that we would never have a cuddly cat, when it happened. I was upstairs folding laundry, when my spouse called for me. They had been sitting on the couch playing video games when Bristol had hopped onto their lap. It was only a minute or two before she wandered off to someplace else, but we knew that she trusted us now. Over the next few months she became more active at play time, more desiring of pets, and she even began to sleep at our feet. By the next time we had a guest over, we had a different cat. Bristol confidently confronted our guest and demanded to be pet. While she has never been much of a lap cat, she is now very friendly; she will flop herself onto the ground and demand pets, cuddles, and even the occasional belly rub. She sleeps at our feet every night, and she is the first one to greet guests, even at parties or other loud events.

Everyone says that taking in an anxious cat is rewarding. I guess, as an anxious person myself, I felt some sort of kinship with Bristol, and I looked forward to that reward. However, it was not easy. I didn't get a cat that wanted to play and cuddle right away. She wasn't especially good for emotional support at first either. I mean, It took six months before we saw any hope of her being a lap cat! Bristol has been with us three years now, and some things have never changed. She still finds the weirdest crevices to nap in, and does not like other cats. It took a year for her to be kind to the kitten we later added to our family. She still hates kennels—evacuating her during fire alarms is a nightmare. She also silently hides whenever something scares her. Finally, to my delight, for some unknown reason, she avoids my in-laws. We don't see these as problems though. They are a part of Bristol's personality, and as her humans, we are determined to give her the best life we can, even if it means crawling under a bed to evacuate her during a potential crisis, or sitting next to her in the basement waiting for the tornado watch to pass, while she yowls. Even all these years later, I can still tell that I adopted a scaredy-cat, but I also adopted a queen, and I appreciate every day that I get to spend with her.