When we first picked them up from their old home on the night we returned from camping at the Northwest String Summit in Oregon, they were as feral as ever. They set up their own camp in a tent-like furry little cat cave for two resting between their stylish poop box and their food dishes in our newly finished office. And they never left, for two days, while we unpacked and made the rest of the apartment our own home. Ruby (tortoise-shell bespeckled face with tabby legs and dappled underbelly) was the first to venture out, the independence in her surging so much that she actually turned the corner of the hallway and moved into the kitchen, slowly. But as soon as we made a move, even a foot coming down off the couch, she would dart her black body in reverse and tuck back into the office and the cave next to her bro. Meanwhile, Leo (flame-point Siamese tabby with baby blue eyes) seemingly never moved. Then around day 4, Ruby made her nightly venture out of the office, and Leo actually followed his sister, taking the (literally) guided tour of what she had discovered from her previous ventures. He had this stealthy cheetah gait about him while his head bounced up and down like a pigeon, following Ruby's path while she turned periodically to see if he was still there. All it took for him to retreat to the cave was a wave from us, while Ruby had graduated to a little more trust and only retreated when we actually rose from the couch or walked an inch. So, it was an odd first few days as we moved into an apartment together and thought we had cats but never really saw them except as streaks of color moving quickly through space while we scuttled our stuff around and new furniture arrived. We loved on 'em in their cave and they loved on us back from inside the cave. The office was ground zero and their radar gradually expanded concentrically to find more cave-like hiding places in our settling house, places which now have been sealed off - behind the stove (Leo), behind the desk drawer (Leo), behind the toilet (Ruby). Then came the cat tree.
It came free off Craigslist, a five foot blue thing with bad carpeting, two levels of platforms beneath a plush box with a pair of holes in it teetering on top. A must have. A peace offering. Ruby had by now been more open to walking around the living room and only looking like a deer in headlights when we made moves, generally saving her retreats for when we walked up to her. Leo still had no desire to leave the cave. But when Kelli lifted him out of his tent and showed him the lofty plush heights of the Blue Treehouse in our living room, he reached for its carpet like it was candy and crawled in and didn't leave, for days. And after that he knew that having both his food and his cat tree oasis meant a trek across the tremulous savanna between office and living room. He's been a grateful, purring, mobile and social boy ever since. Ruby perfected her high jump skills into the hole first, while Leo used the arm of the couch for a higher degree of difficulty. Both hit the hole every time, except when they find the other sibling in the hole waiting for them. Then we get out the digital camera and the popcorn and watch the ensuing clawless fighting. And from that perch they are safe and we can float around the house and sing and speak foreign languages and cook and move more stuff and play our instruments really loud and they can just tuck their heads into their paws, squint their eyes and wish they were in Kansas. They tolerate us in their home.
The cat tree made all the difference, because now we can consistently see Leo's face up-close and notice his crossed eye which twitters ever so slightly. We think it helps him see things that others don't see, It also makes his head tilt inquisitively to the side when he stands and looks at you. Ruby's underbelly is exposed more and more to reveal a panoply of symmetric color patterns to go with her Jackson Pollack nose. We thought we had inherited two shy but selectively lovely kitties, but every day in September marks another move toward Toby/Griffin sweetness or Gretl/Max craziness, and only this week has the lap or the leg become a possible landing pad, ala Squeak.
Leo likes to keep his head and face on your hand when you pet him, so don't move or he'll paw your hand back to his chin, lick it, and rub some more on it. He sleeps with a smile on his face, and his head usually nuzzles against something, anything, including his own paw. He likes it that way. Ruby's sleek blackness can be found on the window sill and she must come over and step onto my desk to do a drive-by every time I sit down. Her dainty demeanor belies a deft ability to attack rubber bands and fake mice with somersaults that usually end in her crashing gracefully into the wall or floor heater with a thud. Then she shakes it off, walks away, and looks behind her like she meant to do that. She also has some magic in her feet that make her tap along the floor with every step, but she has yet to throw some kitty litter on the ground and practice her soft shoe shuffle. Our sliding glass door remains a mystery to them, and we don't think they'll really love the leash idea, so until they prove their skills in working the BBQ or cleaning the deck they remain indoors, but they never fail to sit nattily at the closed door and watch us until the door opens and they quickly dash in different directions. And while Ruby might love heading out for a night on the town, Leo most likely would miss his Treehouse too much and just leave the real trees to the squirrels. The best thing about Leo and Ruby is no matter how much they run from us, they are learning to come back. When we call them to dinner they run to the feast in the office, but if we spend too much time there they look at us like What are you still doing here? and run away, but they do return. And if we enter the bedroom and they are on the window perch they'll jump down and run out cuz really What the heck are we doing in our own room anyway? but a few minutes later they'll lope and tap their way back in to hang out. We move too fast = they run quickly away. No matter how many treats of tuna we give them, how many nights we spend with them finally purring on our laps, how often we love on them and they beg for more, they always retain that sense of protectiveness, wildness and flight. And that's cool as long as they come back, and they always do. I hope they never just let us jump around next to them or throw them between us or let us run into a room without them going Holy crap who are they? Let them always remain feral to the bone, because it reminds us of our own human tendencies to be individual and somewhat protective but at the same time to learn to trust in love and being loved. To me that's a huge part of making a new home.
All in all, we have two cats born wild, tamed by others, now going through a wild rebirth with their bear owners in a small apartment in Seattle. Fish are next, and oh what fun that'll be. :)
