Animals Welcome Page 4

  If I don’t answer my mail promptly,

  it’s because Molly is sleeping in the in-box.

  I’d felt a special bond with Pete from the beginning. After our former cat, Dolly, died, at age sixteen, Carl and I had agreed to adopt a mature cat. At that time, we lived in Bellevue, Washington, and both volunteered at the Humane Society there. We knew firsthand how much harder it is to find homes for adult cats than for kittens. Dolly had been three when we adopted her, and she had been a wonderful pet.

  We went to the shelter and looked at the cats, but on that particular day we didn’t see one whose paperwork said, “Good with dogs.” Since we had two dogs then, it was important to us to find a cat who was comfortable around canines.

  My birthday came a couple of days after that unsuccessful visit, and my friend Ginny, who later adopted Buddy, invited me to go to lunch. I passed the Humane Society on my way to meet Ginny at the restaurant, so I left home early and stopped to see if any new cats had been made available.

  Pete had been brought from a foster home that morning. I took one look at Pete and all my good intentions of adopting an older cat flew out the window. I wanted that kitten! Ginny was waiting for me, so I asked the adoption staff if they could hold the kitten for me for three hours. That would give me time to have lunch, and get back to the shelter to meet Carl there, to make sure he liked this kitten, too.

  It was against their policy to hold an animal without a commitment to adopt it.

  I called Carl. “I’m at the animal shelter,” I told him. “I know we agreed that we wouldn’t take a kitten but there’s one here who’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen, and they won’t hold him until after I have lunch and I’m afraid if I wait, he’ll be gone.”

  I paused for breath.

  “Take him,” Carl said.

  “You don’t need to see him first?”

  “I can’t imagine a kitten that I wouldn’t like. Remember, I didn’t see George, either, until after you’d brought him home.”

  George was our first cairn terrier mix and, it’s true, I let the kids talk me into getting him when all we’d set out to do was buy a Christmas present for our parakeet. That time I hadn’t even called Carl first, but he had been delighted to come home from work and discover that a small black puppy was now part of his family. If you love animals, marry someone who loves them, too.

  I told the shelter I would take Pete, paid his adoption fee, and said I’d be back to get him that afternoon. As soon as I got him home, I discovered that this adorable bit of fluff had a mind of his own and limitless energy. He climbed the drapes. He batted the pencils off my desk. He galloped up and down the stairs at night. He grabbed at the shoelaces when I tried to tie my shoes. In other words, he behaved like a kitten.

  He also butted his head against us, and purred loudly whenever we petted him. He jumped on top of the player piano, and positioned himself in the middle of my Raggedy Ann doll collection. If he was hungry, he walked up and down the piano keys until he got fed. He made us laugh every single day, and I loved him wholeheartedly.

  Pete lived exuberantly, seeming to relish every moment. His self-confidence and his insistence on setting his own rules were part of his charm but, in the end, they cost him his life.

  About three weeks after Pete disappeared, a cat described on the Humane Society’s phone recording sounded like Pete. We rushed there, but it wasn’t him. The next day we held a brief memorial service for Pete and planted a tree in his memory.

  Of course, we’d lost other pets over the years, and it is never easy, but my grief for Pete was different from what I felt for Daisy and for other earlier animal friends. I loved Daisy dearly, but at sixteen she had lived a full, long life. So had all of our other animals. Pete was only seven years old. He should have been with us for many more years.

  Also, we knew what had happened to the others. It is terrible not to know what happened to Pete. For years, I continued to look for him. My eyes would sweep across the green of the grass and trees, hoping for a glimpse of brown and white fur, but I never saw it.

  Pete was an exceptional cat, and I wanted to do something special to honor his memory. Because he often stomped around on the keyboard if I left the computer unattended for a few minutes, I had joked that he wanted to help me write my books. Several times when I left my office briefly to get a drink of water or a cup of coffee, I returned to find gibberish typed in the middle of my manuscript, and Pete sitting on my desk.

  As I remembered that funny trick, I decided to write the book that I thought Pete would have written, if he could have. I began writing from Pete’s viewpoint, and it felt as if Pete had miraculously returned, at least inside my head. I knew exactly what Pete would say and do, and I loved putting his thoughts on paper. Instead of crying every time I thought of Pete, I began to laugh as I imagined him swaggering about, solving a mystery. The result was The Stranger Next Door, by Peg Kehret and Pete the Cat.

  When my publisher was ready to register the copyright for me, my editor called. “I don’t think we can take out a copyright for a cat,” she said. “Maybe you should not list Pete as your coauthor.”

  “His name has to be listed,” I said. “That was the whole reason for this book.”

  Copyright is a protection provided to authors and others by U.S. law. When a book is copyrighted in my name, I am the only one who can give permission to make and distribute copies of it or to perform it. There are other protections, too.

  An author automatically owns the copyright as soon as the book is on paper, but registering that copyright through the Library of Congress provides other legal protection and is done routinely by all publishing companies.

  I doubted that anyone at the Library of Congress actually reads every application, especially those from large and well-established publishing companies who submit hundreds of copyright applications each year. I asked the editor to please request the copyright in both my name and Pete’s, and see what happened.

  The copyright was granted to both of us. Pete’s name appears on the cover as my coauthor.

  Next I wrote Spy Cat and later I added Trapped, both coauthored with Pete.

  I put photos of Pete on my web site, www.pegkehret.com, for anyone who clicked “Pete’s Page.” Pete began to get his own fan mail. I even bought a rubber stamp of a cat with a book and used it as Pete’s “pawtograph” when I signed his books.

  The three Pete the Cat books are my memorial to Pete. I loved writing them and they helped to ease my sorrow. They also created a problem. My readers love Pete, too, and often ask how he is. The first time a child asked me that, I told him that Pete was no longer living, and the child burst into tears. He acted as if I’d told him that his own pet had died.

  Now when anyone asks about Pete, I don’t tell the truth, because it would only make them sad. Still, it seems wrong to say Pete’s fine when he isn’t, so now I respond by saying that Pete will always be Boss of the Universe. I hope that Pete’s fans who read this will forgive me for pretending.

  The real Pete became the character in the books, and now the character seems real. Pete still lives in my memory, and he lives in the minds of everyone who laughs at his antics in the books. This is what I hope for myself when I depart this Earth—to live on in the memories of those I love, and to continue to entertain readers with my books.

  The Pet I’ve Never Petted

  I glimpsed the tabby cat in the tall grass at the rear of my property. He caught my eye because he looked so much like Molly that I had to check to be sure Molly was inside. He was there again the next day, and the next.

  At the time I had begun feeding a white stray cat that I called Casper, and I realized this tabby was probably hungry, too. Casper came up on my porch to eat, and sometimes slept in one of the planter boxes that contained only dirt for the winter. The tabby was a true feral who fled if I headed toward him, no matter how far away he was. I left food and water in the area where I’d seen him, then returned to the house a
nd watched through binoculars. He crept cautiously toward the food, ate quickly, and left.

  After I’d fed Casper for a week, I set the humane trap for him. I’d made a veterinary appointment for the next morning, intending to get him (her?) spayed or neutered, and treated for any problems the vet might find, such as ear mites or fleas. I had to cancel the appointment because I didn’t catch him. In fact, I never saw Casper again. I suspect his white coat made him an easy target for night-roaming coyotes, and I wish I’d tried to trap him sooner.

  The feral tabby kept returning. I’d see him sitting in the tall grass, watching the house, waiting for me to bring his food. When I opened the door, he’d bolt, returning to eat only after I’d gone back inside.

  I talked to him as I put the food out. “Hello, Mr. Stray,” I’d say softly. “You’re a good kitty. What a nice kitty, kitty. Here’s your food.” I hoped he would eventually associate the sound of my voice with the food and would quit running from me. Each time I put the food out for him, I set it a foot closer to the house. After two weeks, it was no longer in the tall grass, but at the edge of the mowed area. He was more visible there, so he waited until dusk to eat.

  Because it rains a lot here in western Washington, I wanted to keep moving Mr. Stray’s bowl until I had it on the porch. That way I could leave food out without it getting all soggy and Mr. Stray wouldn’t get drenched while he had his meal. Also, I wouldn’t get soaked taking the food to him.

  After two more weeks I was finally able to leave the food on the back porch, where he came and ate after it got dark. There was one problem. We used the back door to let Daisy in and out. If there was any food in Mr. Stray’s dish, Daisy ate it. (If there was food anywhere, Daisy ate it!) Also, my back door is glass and Daisy barked if she saw Mr. Stray coming up the steps onto the porch. Naturally, if the dog barked, the cat ran.

  I decided I had to train Mr. Stray to come to the front porch. It was covered and dry, the front door was solid, and the windows on that side of the house were too high for Daisy to see out of.

  Mr. Stray, waiting for his dinner

  It was another slow process to gradually move the food off the back porch, around the side of the house, and onto the front porch, but at last we made it and Mr. Stray began to come there when he was hungry. He would sit on the small rug I’d put under his dishes and watch the window. I put a padded cat bed out for him, and he often slept in it. Whether he was asleep or awake, the second he heard the doorknob turn he leaped off the porch and either went underneath it or ran into the woods. I kept talking, though, saying, “Hello, Mr. Stray. Good, kitty, kitty,” to the empty porch.

  Winter arrived, and the temperatures plummeted. We decided that Mr. Stray needed better shelter. A trip to the pet store revealed lots of doghouse choices but nothing for outdoor cats. The smallest doghouses were still too big; we didn’t think they’d be warm enough. We finally purchased a covered litter box made of sturdy gray plastic. The opening was big enough for Mr. Stray, but it would be snug inside.

  When we got it home, Carl rigged up a customized heating system for Mr. Stray’s new home. He put a heating coil in the bottom of the little house and attached it to a thermostat that hung on the outside wall. He programmed the thermostat to turn on the heating coil whenever the temperature got down to forty degrees.

  We put Mr. Stray’s house at the far end of the front porch, where the outside walls of the kitchen and the workshop meet. It would be most sheltered from the wind there. We positioned it so that the opening faced toward the kitchen wall. We duct-taped the seams to prevent cold air from leaking in, and draped a heavy towel over the top for added insulation. I put an old hand towel inside, and then added a small blue knitted blanket on top of the towel. Cats love knitted blankets, and I’ve made them for years for the shelter cats. A character in Ghost Dog Secrets does this, too, and instructions for the blankets are included in that book.

  Next Carl drilled a hole through the side of our house! He poked the cord from the heating coil through the hole into his piano workshop, and plugged it in. A tiny red light glowed on the back of Mr. Stray’s house whenever the coil was on so that we could tell without frightening Mr. Stray that the thermostat was working and his personal heating system was activated.

  Mr. Stray discovered his house that same night, and he has slept in it during cold weather ever since. Often when I take food out for him early in the morning, his head will pop out of the opening and he’ll watch me make my delivery. As long as I don’t go too close to his house, he stays in it. Periodically when I see him outside, I remove his blanket and towel, shake them out and sometimes wash them. Once they were both so filthy that I dropped them in the garbage can and gave him new ones.

  After Mr. Stray had been eating and sleeping on the front porch for a couple of months, I decided it was time to trap him. He was way too afraid of me to consider trying to find him a home, but he was a perfect candidate for Trap, Neuter and Return (TNR), a program that is intended to stop feral cats from reproducing. Cats who are not spayed or neutered have kittens at an alarming rate. If two cats produce two litters a year and the resulting cats are left to breed, too, there will be more than twelve thousand cats within five years! Cats, both feral and domestic, are healthier if they’ve been “fixed.” I got out our trap, and made an appointment with my veterinarian to have Mr. Stray neutered the next morning.

  That night we positioned the trap on the porch next to Mr. Stray’s eating area. We baited it with his favorite food (kitty-num-num, naturally) and activated the trap. I peeked out the window and watched him sniff suspiciously at the trap. He walked all the way around it. He tried to reach in the closed end where the food was, but he would not enter through the open door. He went hungry that night, rather than go in the trap.

  The next morning I called the vet to say I would not be bringing Mr. Stray in after all. I rescheduled for the next morning. I put fresh food in the trap and we left it set all day and another night. Again, Mr. Stray refused to go after it.

  This went on for nearly a week. Later, the vet’s assistant told me they were jokingly placing bets about whether I’d ever show up to keep Mr. Stray’s appointment. I never did.

  A cold front moved down from Canada, bringing us nine inches of snow. I couldn’t bear to see Mr. Stray go without food in such cold weather, so I put the trap away and gave him free access to his meals again. He devoured the food, then settled into his warm house. The score was: Mr. Stray 1, Peg 0.

  Over the years, I’ve tried several more times to trap Mr. Stray but I have never succeeded. The score is now Mr. Stray 7, Peg 0. My hunch is that he had been trapped at some time in the past, and he is too wily to repeat such a frightening experience.

  I’ve always regretted that I have not been able to provide veterinary care for him. Twice I purchased worm medication from the vet and mixed it in his food. Both times, he refused to eat it. It sat on the porch until it got rotten, when I threw it away. I’d like to put flea treatment on him, but I can’t get close enough to do that.

  I’m not even positive that he is Mr. Stray. Perhaps he is Ms. Stray, although it seems likely that he is a male cat because in the eleven years that he’s been eating and sleeping on my porch, there’s never been a litter of kittens. He doesn’t spray, as many unaltered male cats do, and he doesn’t fight with Dillon, my neighbor’s male cat who visits now and then.

  In The Ghost’s Grave, the cat character is a combination of Mama cat and Mr. Stray. In the book, she’s called Mrs. Stray.

  He no longer hides from me, but he stays at least six feet away. He still has his padded cat bed in addition to his house, and he often naps there in the late morning sun. If I open the door when he’s sleeping, he leaps out of the bed and watches warily from farther down the porch.

  A few months after Daisy died, we adopted Lucy from a rescue group. She is a cairn terrier, the same as Daisy, but with a whole different look and personality. Daisy was mellow; Lucy gets hyper. Daisy was brindle co
lor; Lucy’s fur is reddish tan. Daisy was quiet; Lucy barks too much.

  Lucy has chased Mr. Stray many times. When this happens, he always runs to the tree house that Carl built for our grandchildren, climbs the ladder, and sits on the tree house floor, staring down as Lucy barks, sniffs, and runs around at the base of the ladder.

  I always look before I let Lucy out, and try not to turn her loose if Mr. Stray is nearby, but I don’t always see him if he’s in the tall grass, or sitting behind a tree. A low wooden barrier keeps Lucy away from Mr. Stray’s part of the porch, so she can’t eat his food or surprise him when he’s sleeping in his bed or his house. I think Lucy could easily jump over the barrier, but she’s never tried to do so.

  I am certain that being chased by a dog, even a dog as small as Lucy is, has kept Mr. Stray cautious and hindered my attempts to tame him. Lucy may be little, but she makes a lot of noise.

  Even though I never let Lucy out with me when I’m taking Mr. Stray his food, she often woofs while I’m out there because she hears me talking to him and thinks a person has come. Of course, Mr. Stray hears her. Even though she’s in the house, I know it makes him uneasy.

  I have made some progress; he often answers me now, when I talk to him.

  “You’re a fine cat,” I tell him.

  “Mrow,” he’ll say.

  “What a good kitty.”

  “Mrow, mrow.”

  “Here’s your food, Mr. Stray.”

  “Mrow.”

  I’ve noticed he’s most inclined to talk to me when he’s hungry, so all of our conversations occur when I am delivering his meals.

  When I consider how many potential hazards there are in Mr. Stray’s life, I marvel that he has lived this long. On the other side of my fence, there are coyotes, cars, large dogs, an occasional bobcat, and, possibly, cruel people. A stray cat faces danger every second. My hope is that he doesn’t wander off my property much, and I suspect this is the case.