That’s a picture of sweet little orphan Annie about two days after I adopted her.  How about that li’l ragamuffin with the all-knowing owl eyes, like two brand-new polished marbles?  She’s now the floofiest, most spoiled little chonker (at the vet two Saturdays ago, the first thing the doc said was “She’s pudgy,” which hurt my feelings, so I can’t imagine how Annie dealt with it), but when she first came into my world from the SPCA, she was this chilled-out baby urchin with a gaze to stop you in your tracks.

Let’s go back to Vokra, because that’s where I left off.  Again, I am not going to say anything negative about an association that wants to ensure that cats are housed, loved, and safe.  I’m just going to say that my own experience was negative, and I couldn’t be more grateful to them for that.  To repeat: without this negative experience, I would never have met my Annie.  

With Vokra, I had to fill out an online application.  I had to go through a phone interview.  I was sent several emails outlining their very, uh, specific policies on how cats should be fed, the sort of litter that should be used, and…well…here’s a snippet of the email I received after my initial application was approved:

Hi Nadz,

I’ve attached a document regarding healthy cat food as discussed on the phone. Also, this brief article was written by a veterinarian and discusses why WET FOOD is essential for proper feline nutrition. Please take a moment to read through it and please let me know if you have any questions! Lastly, this handy link lists ingredients to AVOID in your kitty’s food – take a look, you may be surprised to find that many of these ingredients are even found in popular brands of cat food!!

These are the pine pellets that VOKRA uses as litter. We buy them, or a comparable pine pellet, at RONA for about $5-7 per 40 pound bag.

Next Step: Please visit the gallery on our website to view available cats at http://www.orphankittenrescue.com and then send me the names of any cats you would like to meet so that we can organize viewings. 

Typical instructions for meeting a kitty are as follows:

1. You visit the gallery and send me the name of a kitty you would like to meet.

2. I send you the foster contact information so that you can make an appointment to meet the kitty. The viewing is ONLY a viewing, so no exchange of $ or animals will take place, but it’s a great opportunity to meet and decide if the match works. Once you have booked a viewing appointment then please send me the details asap so that I can enter the date into the database (this prevents other people from viewing the same kitty before you’ve made a decision).

3. If you feel very strongly after a viewing that you’ve found the right match you e-mail me right away so that we can secure the cat for you and move forward with the paperwork and transfer. Also, the foster will contact me afterwards to let me know if he/she feels it’s a good fit.

It’s a VERY good idea to read ALL of the attachments I send you PRIOR to viewing the kitties. The fosters will likely have some questions for you, so it’s important to be prepared/well informed. Reading the attachments will impress the fosters who then support your application, but, most importantly, you’ll be more educated and ready for top notch cat care 😉

If for any reason you find a kitty elsewhere, please send me a message so that your application can be removed from our database; however, I’m sure you’ll find we have no shortage of fabulous furry friends to choose from! I’m looking forward to helping you as much as possible, so please let me know if I can assist you in your search in any way!

…okay, then! 

Now, I love cats more than even you think you do, but cats are tough creatures.  They are solitary predators and survivors, and believe me when I say that your wee tabby Mittens over there, cutely licking his toe beans in that plush cat bed, would devour you alive without hesitation if you weren’t quite a bit bigger than him.  Cats love meat.  Apparently, if you die and you live alone and you have a feline and nobody’s been made aware of this sad situation, the first thing your very hungry cat starts to feast on are the soft parts of your corpse, such as your lips and nose.  Then your neck.  Then your torso.

When you spoil them absolutely rotten–as I have shamelessly done to Annie for a decade–they can become passive, placid, and, well, pudgy.  But left to their own devices, they are made of hardy and hearty stuff, and know how to take care of themselves better than half of the human beings I’ve met in my 48 years on Earth.  Also better personal hygiene and dignity, come to think of it.  

…so these Vokra outlines and policies seemed somewhat beyond sensibility, but what did I know?  I’d never had a kitty cat before.  I eventually arranged for a viewing with one of Vokra’s foster parents so I could meet the fostered cat, and see if it was a proper meeting of the minds and souls.  

After several tiring emails and back-and-forths between the organization, the foster, and me, I finally trekked out to a duplex on Grandview Highway somewhere (I think it was Grandview and Fraser, not that far from this tasty place).  The woman who answered the door was pleasant, polite, sort of punk, but also had a cigarette dangling between her fingers. 

Now, see here, reader: I am 100% not sorry to say that I loathe smokers, and judge every last one of them with hostility.  When it comes to smoking, I’m like the evangelical vegans I just love to loathe.  As I’ve always said, if you’re going to pay twenty bones every couple of days for a habit or addiction, it should at least fuck you up.  And knowing that she was housing what was likely a very timid, very vulnerable homeless cat whilst spreading carcinogenic fumes everywhere, well…it seemed completely cruel, irresponsible, and selfish.

She invited me into her duplex, and there was a very feral, scared, cute little cat named Casey (I’m actually not sure if there are any cats in existence who aren’t cute) hiding under a bureau.  When I tried to approach this little animal by bending down and extending a hand, she hissed and attempted to swat at me.  

The foster mother and I chatted a bit, and she said that she had had this little beauty at her home for about a week or so, but that “my landlord doesn’t know.  We’re not allowed to have pets here.”

What?

How was Vokra vetting and reviewing their foster parents?

I had to go through a massive questionnaire, an interview, and a screening process before they even deemed me adequate to be a cat owner.  How did this woman sneak a sweet, innocent, fragile cat into her house without providing documentation of her home being pet-friendly?  So she was harbouring a homeless feline refugee.  It seemed utterly stinky, like her goddamn fucking cigarettes.

This foster mother also said that Casey was very feral, and might be too much for us at present.  So I wrote back to the worker at Vokra to let her know the following:

I just got back and had a conversation with my boyfriend about Casey…while I was kind of set on adopting her, and may have jumped the gun in contacting you, I think she might actually be a bit too feral for our tastes.  It’s unfortunate, but before committing to a kitty, I really want to make sure it’s a cat that isn’t going to be so skittish and hardcore, and I am not totally experienced with semi-feral cats.  Her foster mother confirmed that she is semi-feral, and that might be a bit too much for us right now.

We will consider little Giana and I am about to call her foster–although she isn’t on the website (still)–but are also interested in a cat called Peanuts who is in the West End.  Is there any way to connect me with his foster?

It was just this ongoing series of emails, appointments, confirmations, and waiting for replies.  A real process.  And the mice in our apartment were increasing in boldness–and most horrifyingly, size–by the day.  I needed a cat to deal with what I could not deal with.  It would take days to not even set up another viewing, but simply to get on a waitlist for a viewing…and some of the fosters weren’t replying.

By this point, Charles and I were ready to rock.  We had gone to Tisol on Main Street and spent almost two hundred dollars on everything conceivable that our yet-to-be pet-and-assassin would want: a cat bed, a carrying case, a covered litter box, a scooper, pine pellet litter (flushable, biodegradable, safe for their little feets), tins and bags of food that were as grain- and carb-free as we could find, Temptations treats, Greenie treats, several toys.  We took a cab back to our infested apartment with all this stuff, just waiting for the perfect pussy.   

I inquired with Vokra once again if they were able to arrange transportation should we actually find a good match (and should someone, y’know, actually get back to us and let us meet some more cats).  This is the email I received in reply:

Thank you for keeping me updated, Nadz. VOKRA doesn’t necessarily provide transportation for adopters, but you may be able to ask if anyone in our Facebook group would be available to help out. But what will you do when it comes time to take kitty for the 1st vet checkup?

For many huffy reasons, this did not sit well with me.  Not only did we live in a city where having a car is a money pit, but there were vets and pet clinics all around us.  This sounded…judgy.  

So being the timid, introverted, shy, not-at-all outspoken wallflower that I am, I had to respond:

I have no problem with taxis and such, and I use them often; the reason we do not have a car is because of how incredibly wasteful and expensive it is to maintain one in this city, and that is simply how it is.  We spent well over $100 today on cat accessories and look forward to adopting a kitty, although I’m not sure what the procedure is–if / when we like her, what happens next?  This is a blurry part of the adoption process, so any clarification on the contractual and monetary stuff would be great.  

…I felt a slight bit of shaming in your email regarding our lack of vehicle.  Rest assured we are mobile and entirely capable of taking care of a cat.

The backpedaling involved in her reply to me must have been some excellent cardio:

Hi Nadz,

I also don’t have a car – we moved from Ontario and repairs to have the van safetied would have been more than it was worth for us! Personally I think it’s been good for us, because we walk to more places now 🙂

So if after you meet your next foster and you feel that she is a good match for you, just send me a message saying you’d like to adopt her. I’ll then set you up to do papers with one of our volunteers (probably at our new Operations Center in East Van – near Powell and Victoria). 

This was getting nowhere.  I just wanted my future bumblebee to love, to stroke, to smooch, and to destroy the dirty rodents who were getting a bit too comfortable in our place.  

  *   *   *   *   *

When our next appointment to meet a foster fell through, Charles had absolutely had enough.  It had been a handful of weeks and nothing was panning out.  There we were, trapped in an apartment with mice, surrounded by cat accessories, me standing on tables and almost most assuredly drinking my face off, and we couldn’t seem to just find a fucking cat.  

“I am taking tomorrow off,” he declared on a Tuesday night, “and we are getting our cat.  We’re going to the SPCA on 7th, and we are not going home without one.  Check the site and see what’s up for adoption.  This is ridiculous.”  

Happily and relieved–and wondering why we hadn’t just gone this route to begin with–I went to the site and checked out the adoptable animals.  As always, there were senior cats who needed homes, which always breaks my heart.  Lots of older black cats, too.  These sweeties are entering their twilight years, and from what I’ve heard, they are the most grateful, loving, affectionate animals you could bring into your homes to give them the warmest experience of their eighth or ninth life.  In the future, I will do just that, if I don’t already have an animal sanctuary.  But ten years ago, I wasn’t ready for a senior cat, because when you’re excitedly getting your first cat–you want a cute kitten!

Everyone wants a cute kitten!

There was one in particular who stood out to me on the website: a real sweet-faced young kitty whose quick bio I don’t remember, and so I decided we would go there and obtain her in the morning.  She was called Juniper, a name that would have to be changed immediately.  

I wanted a little orphan Annie.  

It’s not like I set my mind on a female cat, because I’ve also always wanted a handsome ginger male named George.  But there were many, many female cats available, and I wanted an Annie.  I’d find her; I would.  Maybe this was her.  

We set off to the SPCA in East Van as soon as it opened, ready to go home with a new family member.  We approached the front desk and asked to see Juniper.

“Let me see about her,” said the kind volunteer.  After a minute or so of checking around, she said, “Juniper is actually out today, getting some dental work done.”

Oh, come on.  

“You can go back there and see the cats, though.  Maybe there’s another one you’re interested in.”

Disappointed, we went to the cat room to meet some other kitties, maybe see if there was a soulmate hanging around in there.  

The cats are all in cages–not very big ones–and while I know they are taken care of by the SPCA as best as possible, it’s still a heartbreaking sight to see.  There were a few other people in there looking at the cats, interested in finding their own little pal to take home.

However, in the very centre of the room was an enclosure that they’d set up for cats to come out of their cages, do a bit of walking around, maybe have visitors feed them treats.  It was a low, collapsible cage, and the diameter was something like ten feet across.

Inside this enclosure was a very intelligent-looking white cat with curious grey markings.  She was not skittish; she was not feral; she was not vocal; and she was very calm.  She slinked around the enclosure as a young couple fed her bits of provided kibble, obviously quite charmed by this self-assured little beauty.

A volunteer monitoring the room said, “That’s Trudy.  It’s her time to be out right now.”  

Trudy.  Another terrible name.  

But Trudy grabbed my interest immediately, and I began watching her body language and demeanour.  The other cats dissolved out of the frame for me; something about this one was very appealing.

As the couple feeding her pieces of kibble stepped out of the enclosure, they didn’t close the gate all the way to the wall.  So Trudy kind of looked to her left, looked to her right, and very silently and casually slipped through the opening.  She then started surreptitiously making her way against the wall of the room to the exit door.

Charles saw all of this, and scooped her up to carry her back to the enclosure. “Nope, nope, nope, kitty!  I like your gumption, though!”

And she let him hold her, she didn’t wail, didn’t scratch, didn’t bite, didn’t make a sound; she had just tried a little bit of jailbreak, and it had been thwarted.  ‘Til next time, I guess.  

“I want her.”  

That was me.  I had found my Annie.  Turning to the worker in the room, I said, “That’s our cat.  We’d like to adopt her.”

She said, “Well, there are two other couples who are interested in her, but they can’t be here again until the weekend, and–”

“I’m here right now.  And she’s the cat I would like.”

What could she do?  How to argue with this?  We had the money, we had the confirmation from our landlord that pets were okay in the building, and we were there.  The entire process of meeting Annie–no longer Trudy, never again a Trudy–was possibly five minutes.  But I knew.

And she knew, too.

As we waited in the lobby, paid the fees, had our landlord called to double-make-sure a cat was okay (“So long as it isn’t a lion,” I remember he joked), papers signed, vaccinations and medical records given over, I anxiously awaited the arrival of Annie as they got her ready for her forever home.

The worker came out and said, in a low, impressed voice, “I think you’re going to be very happy with her.  She didn’t make a peep going into her carrying case…almost like she knows she’s going to a good place.”  Then, “I put her cage towel into the carrying case so she’s comforted by the smell.”  For some reason this really moved me, and I still don’t know why.  

Even while waiting on the sidewalk for our taxi, there was nary a mew.  The only ones we heard from our little sphinx was after we got into our cab and travelled the short distance home, as she was not at all fond of the ride, the bumps, or the motor.  This hasn’t changed in ten years.

Along with her paperwork, we were given a slip of paper with the briefest of descriptions:

Hi, I’m Trudy!  My owner had to go to hospital, so I am technically a stray [1 year, 2 months old].  I am sweet as pie and have a face like a big kitten!  I think you will love me!

The “face like a big kitten part” is something I repeat to her on an almost daily basis.  

When we got home, there wasn’t the expected skittish, scared behaviour of running for shelter behind furniture, terrified of the new environment.  Not even close.  We set her case down, opened it up, and she sauntered out of it as though she knew the place already.  Like she knew this was always going to be her home.  Casually snooped around, more than likely sniffed out some mouse droppings, and then actually jumped onto the loveseat and settled in with confidence and comfort.

Not only that, but at nighttime, she leaped onto our queen bed and very comfortably nestled herself at our feet.  Night one.

This is the cat I am supposed to have.  It’s been ten years, and my love for her grows exponentially every day.  Charles and I have long since broken up, but we are an example of the civility and decency that can occur when a couple doesn’t make it romantically but are instead much more naturally inclined to be best friends.  I think it’s rare, remarkable, and beautiful.  He gets visitation rights with her, helps pay for her needs, and asks about her every single day.  

Oh, right.  The mice.

It didn’t take this adorable little baby long at all to understand that murder was going to be one of her tasks at her new home, and she did the most incredible job of it.  Within less than a week, I awoke to see a mangled round ball of bloody flesh plonked right beside my bed where I set foot every morning (luckily didn’t step on it).  No head, no limbs, no tail, just…a hunk of mutilation of very “Saw”-like proportions.  I had never seen anything like it before.  I’m pretty sure that this absolute straitjacket case and my ex would have had things to say about it after wiping their processed, soy-flavoured, chemical, small-animal-murdering tears onto their hemp cloaks.  

There were a few more mice over the next week or so.  I found them, hopeless and dead, in various parts of the suite.  Admittedly, they were so very small that I didn’t want to think about the torture inflicted upon them, but Annie was doing her job.  It’s what cats do.  They are cunning, inherent predators.  Besides, I’ve had worse damage done to my heart and brain by unspeakably awful men I had the poor judgment to have sex with.

The mice disappeared after not quite a month.  They knew she was around, and she loved her job.  It was incredible: not only were we free of dirty vermin, but we had this astoundingly beautiful little furball who was doing it.  Someone with whom I played for hours, smooched about five thousand times an hour, administered filtered water every day into a carved-crystal stemless goblet, and who simply makes me melt every time I look at her.  

She was, and is, so intelligent, my laser pointer didn’t fool her one bit.  I had heard it was great fun for cats to chase the little red dots, go mental, attack them, and get some good exercise.  However, the very first day I used that laser pointer as a means of entertainment, Annie literally looked at the red dot, then at my hand holding the device, and then right into my eyes with an expression that plainly said, Do you really, honestly think I’m a fucking imbecile, mama?  

I don’t, Annie. Quite the opposite. 

So that was the end of the laser pointer.  We didn’t even get off the ground.  The fuzzy little pig at the end of the wooden fishing rod, however…that was her favourite thing for months. 

She has now become whiny, spoiled, entitled, and lazy.  All of it my fault, but as the vet tech said recently, an incredibly common result of urban apartment living. There is simply no room for her to exercise. I know that when she visits my parents in their beautiful big house, she has staircases and space in which to maneuver. Annie comes back to me feeling leaner than ever, as though she has been training for a triathlon. I can’t stand the fact that I don’t have space for her to sprint to and fro, but I also tell myself that it’s still better than a 2 ft by 2 ft cage for the rest of her life.

She is older, has less energy, is somewhat arthritic in her hips, and was very recently treated to a delicious round of orally-injectable opioids that took her straight into Cheech & Chong territory for six days. 

But she also knows exactly when I’m going through hardship, and she will also give me depressed eyes, and she will crawl onto my chest and lie there, calmly purring at top volume until I start kissing her and she’s had enough of my molestation.

I love you, little orphan Annie.  You have turned my life around.  Don’t ever go anywhere.  Because if you do, I’m going with you.