Big Fred was a handsome red tabby cat who followed my brother and me home from the local curb market one day. We all loved him, of course, but mostly he was my father's cat. Their best times together were naps on the sofa in front of the television. Daddy would stretch out on his back with Fred sprawled across his stomach and chest, and they pretended to watch the football game until Saturday afternoon dissolved into contented snores and purring. Fred was Daddy's companion in just about everything, even sharing his dinner, waiting politely beside his chair until a bite of chicken or a fried shrimp tail was offered. Then he would stand straight up on his hind legs, take the morsel delicately, and run off to a corner to enjoy it in peace. No jumping on the table or begging, no snatching, no slobbering. Fred was a gentleman.
After Big Fred had been with us awhile, Daddy installed a cat door so he come and go as he pleased. Sometimes he invited his friends home, and we would find two or three stranger cats sitting around the house when we got up in the morning. During the day he liked to wander off into the woods, but he always came running, a bright orange streak across the neighbors' lawns, when he heard the magic 'Here, kitty, kitty, kitty' at suppertime.
Then one evening, Fred was brought home to us in a neighbor's car. The doorbell rang frantically, and there was Mr. Beal, carrying our beloved pet in a cardboard box. Mr. Beal had seen the hit and run from his living room window, ran out, recognized the cat, and hurried to us straight away. Fred's screams of agony were unbearable; there was blood everywhere, and pieces of his intestines were coming out of his mouth. My mother was on the phone to the vet when I charged out of my bedroom, and as she hung up she said, 'They are sending someone over, but they don't think they will be able to help him.'
Hearing this, my father unlocked the gun cabinet, took out his revolver and loaded it.
Daddy and my brother Bill buried Big Fred in the garden, under the stone bench where he had spent so many hours lying in the sun. Afterwards, Daddy sat crying in his armchair until late in the night. 'It was just like shooting one of my children,' he said.
The house was so empty without Fred. I kept seeing him out the corner of my eye, and would call his name before I remembered. We were broken-hearted, hardly able to get through our evening meals together. We said we would never, ever get another cat.
Several months later, on a freezing winter evening, I opened the back door, and a tiny gray kitten rushed into the house and sprang onto my mother's lap. She was eating one of Colonel Sanders' drumsticks, and was speechless when the kitten tore it right out of her mouth. Of course we weren't ever going to have another cat, but it would be cruel to send him back out onto the street on such a cold night.
That was Freddy Junior, who stayed with my family until his death ten years later. He led a very spoiled life, but not without some ups and downs. Even though he was neutered as a youngster, he didn't choose to spend his days sleeping on a cushion, so we had the inevitable ragged ears, scratched nose, and the like. One day he came home limping pitifully, his face so caked with blood we couldn't really see what was wrong with him. The vet said his left eye would have to be removed, but the operation was an expensive one, costing over a hundred dollars, a considerable sum for my folks back in those days. He suggested delicately that we might just prefer to have the cat put to sleep. 'Hell no!' my father roared. 'Cat's a member of the family, isn't he? Do the operation!'
We lived in a rural neighborhood, the streets so quiet that we kids were allowed to jump rope and play hopscotch in the road. Residents, keeping a prudent watch out for children and dogs, drove home slowly from work and tooted gently for us to get out of their way. In those days, 40 years ago, nobody thought of keeping a cat 'locked up' in the house. It wasn't that we didn't care about them, but everyone had the idea that cats, being such independent souls, needed their freedom.
We loved our cats. We thought we were doing the right thing. We didn't know any better. But it's no excuse. Big Fred should not have had to die in pain and Freddy Junior should not have had to spend the rest of his life with only one eye.
It is said that the life expectancy of a free-roaming cat averages about two years. My husband and I live with fifteen cats who are never allowed to go out. Our eldest is 14½, the next is 12, and we have three 11-year-olds. As time passes, of course, they have to be treated for various ailments. Our old lady is beginning to lose some teeth and our old boy gets special medication to keep his kidneys in order. But they will never be hit by a car, or lose an eye in a fight with a big dog, or die alone in a gutter from some disease they caught from a stray cat. They are happy, well-adjusted animals who enjoy spying on the bird feeder through the kitchen window. They have free access to an outdoor cat run, and lots of space inside to chase each other up and down the stairs. They show no indication that they would feel themselves better off living on the street.
UPDATE: NEW FIV VACCINE
You may have read online about the FIV vaccine which was approved for commercial use by the U.S. Department of Agriculture in March 2002. It was developed by Dr. Janet Yamamoto, co-discoverer in 1986 of the feline immunodeficiency virus and professor at the University of Florida's College of Veterinary Medicine. It is marketed by Fort Dodge Animal Health, a division of Wyeth pharmaceuticals. To read more about the vaccine and about the newly approved interferon treatment for feline leukemia and calicivirus, please refer to Feline immunodeficiency virus: the new vaccine
But the idea still prevails that it is somehow wrong to keep a cat confined. I know my girlfriend Elsie adores her cats, but in spite of having lost two to automobiles, she still allows the third one to wander at will. And Ringo is already endangered because of his roving habits. Even though neutered , he has been a scrapper all his life, never turning his back on a good fight, showing up with abscessed wounds and bits of his ears missing. The last time it happened he had been away for several days and was in pretty bad shape when he came home. The vet patched him up, and suggested that since he had been bitten so badly, and since there is an epidemic of FIV in our region, he should be given a blood test. Result? Ringo is carrying Feline Immunodeficiency Virus, a deadly malady against which there is no vaccine. It is most often transmitted from one cat to another by way of bites. Ringo is showing no signs of sickness. Yet. But if he does fall ill with the virus, there is no treatment that can help him. He is also a danger to other cats if he fights with them. Elsie's friends have all tried to point out how terrible she would feel if she knew Ringo had infected someone else's pet in turn. But unfortunately he is still allowed to roam, because Elsie says, 'Why should Ringo be forced to stay indoors when it was the other cat's fault? It isn't fair.'
Then there was Figaro, a beautiful Siamese belonging to a family several houses down from us. Figaro was not neutered, because his owners thought that sterilization was cruel and unnatural, so his wanderlust was even bigger than that of a castrated male. He went everywhere, often jumped over our garden wall to visit when I was out weeding the rose bed. On three or four occasions I hauled him back to his owners, and once I said, 'Look, he's so friendly. Aren't you afraid somebody will just pick him up and take him home?' The next time I saw Figaro, I couldn't carry him back to them. He was lying dead at the roundabout near the garden center, almost two kilometres from his house. He left lots of half-Oriental offspring among the farm cats in the area. Once in awhile I see one of them dead by the roadside too.
Like every cat breeder who ever places a publicity ad, I get calls from people asking if it will be all right for their new kitten to go outdoors. Often they become quite defensive when I explain why we don't place kittens with people who intend to let them roam free. They always tell me that their area is secluded, not many cars, lots of trees for the cats to climb, and everybody knows it's a cat's nature to wander. It would be cruel to shut them in. In any case, their old cat always came when you called his name. Surely the new kitten will learn to do this too. And I always reply that yes, a cat that loves you will almost always come home when he hears you calling – if he can.
It is so sad to see the notes on the vet's bulletin board, or at the supermarket or bakery: 'Missing since April 19, gray and white female cat, 2 years old, tattooed, answers to the name Misty. Seven-year old mistress inconsolable. Reward offered. Please call this number.'
So what can go wrong?
First there is the obvious danger of the cat's being hit by a car. Cats are quick, of course, but if you have ever observed one caught in your headlight beam at night, you will have noticed that instead of scurrying out of your path, it might just stop dead in the middle of the road, paralyzed somehow by the bright glare. If you are not quick enough with the brake pedal, the cat is hit before its reflexes can kick in.
Then there is the ever-present danger of fights between cats defending their territory – even unneutered cats do this, so castration is no surety for a peaceful existence.
Sometimes dogs attack cats. In forested areas there is danger from foxes. Or from traps set to catch wild animals.
Or the cat may wander into somebody's garage, fall asleep behind a stack of old cartons, and be locked in when the folks living there drive off on vacation.
Where we live, hunters are allowed with impunity to chase their prey onto your private property during hunting season. I know of one case where a red cat was shot for a fox. By accident, of course. Or maybe not. There are malicious idiots everywhere in this world, and some people will shoot at a cat or run it down with a car just for the hell of it. In France you can prosecute the person who hurts or kills your dog, but if he does the same to your cat you have no legal recourse.
Then there are the catnappers. Well, the innocent one may simply make friends with your cat out by the garbage cans and think, 'My wife has been wanting a cat for ages. And this one really seems to like me.'
But there is also a market for cat fur and for laboratory animals. Hate to say it, but Misty, your little girl's adored pet, perhaps a pedigreed Forest Cat for whom you paid a thousand Swiss francs, may end her life in suffering, sold for 25 francs to support some filthy drug habit, tortured in the name of cosmetic vanity. Even tattooing or chipping for identification is no guarantee. Laboratories are not permitted to buy tattooed dogs or cats; however, as my vet has pointed out to me, they are not forbidden to buy an animal with its left ear cut off.
From the moment you accept a cat into your home – whether you picked him out at the breeder's or he showed up on your doorstep and adopted you – he is a member of your family and deserves responsible care. Would you send your four-year-old son out to play in the street?
I know you are a cat lover, because you are taking the time to read this article. You want your cats to have the happiest life possible. Maybe you grew up hearing someone say every night at bedtime, 'Time to wind the clock and put out the cat', and have always been afraid of depriving your pets if you don't allow them the great outdoors. Now, after reading this far, I expect you are starting to wonder how you can protect them more closely.
Summer arrives, and with it barbecues on the terrace, long evenings in the garden. I often hear the argument, 'But the cat will want to come out with us.' Yes, he probably will, but the answer to that one is easy enough: close the door behind you. Or if you are entertaining outdoors and the constant traffic in and out becomes a problem, let your cats spend the evening in a room where they can't see you.
We all need fresh air and ventilation, but there are ways to get around the permanently open door or window. At our house, the upstairs shutters are constructed with slats which let in air while keeping out the sun. Downstairs my husband has installed heavy screens to fit the windows, so we can enjoy the breeze and the cats can sit in the windowsills. Screen windows and doors, so much a part of summer life in the American south where I grew up, are almost unheard of in Europe, but using your native ingenuity you will certainly be able to come up with something viable.
Of course, long-haired cats profit from some time in the winter air; this is especially desirable if they are show cats. If you have enough space, you can build a cat run the way the breeders do, or you may have a balcony you can screen in. (Check your local zoning laws before putting up anything permanent.) Some of the cat magazines advertise a smaller construction that can be installed in a window, making a safe niche for the cat to sit in. If none of these is possible for you, don't worry too much. Over the years I have noticed that a couple of my Forest Cats who never go out in the cat run still develop the typical winter fur. Genetics and their inner seasonal clock seem to take over. The coat may not become quite as luxurious as those exposed to the cold, but lovely all the same, and in any case, more attractive than a mass of matted fur, tangled with burrs that have to be cut out with scissors – that's what you usually get with a free-roaming animal.
It is always more difficult to retrain an older cat that has lived outdoors, whereas if you start with a new kitten, especially if it comes from a breeder, it will not have developed the habit of wandering. But don't underestimate the feline desire for human companionship: even grown-up strays may be gazing wistfully at the warm light from your window!
I remember a young short-haired visitor we had one winter – looked like one of Figaro's grandchildren. One freezing morning when my husband opened the front door to leave for work, this little fellow threw himself across the threshold, and before we could blink he was on the kitchen table, devouring T-Bear's breakfast. He was so affectionate that I was sure he must belong to somebody, so after installing him in a room by himself, I began making the rounds of neighbors' houses. On discovering that he belonged to a young couple a few doors from us, I decided to make 'Charlie' comfortable until they returned that evening. I left a note on their door, telling them not to worry, the kitten was with me and they should drop by when they got home. So they did, and Charlie was delighted to see them, and I figured everything was fine.
A couple of days later it happened again. And then again, until we began to be annoyed. We made ourselves into real busybodies, telling the cat's owners they really shouldn't go off and leave him out in the cold all day. They responded that Charlie LIKES to be outdoors; he lives in a tree; he catches birds. Meanwhile, Charlie was shaking his head and saying, 'No, no, I like to lie on the sofa! I want to eat out of a dish!'
Next, Charlie's folks disappeared for a long weekend, and made no provision for the cat to go indoors at all. Also no provision for him to be fed. So, since our vet firmly discouraged our putting Charlie together with our own cats, we took him to SOS Animaux. (SOS Animaux is a wonderful organization in the Pays de Gex. Animals are never put down there unless they are sick. The humans are overworked, underpaid, and full of love. I encourage all animal lovers in our area to help them with your donations!)
When the couple came home, my husband went over and told them where Charlie was. They were angry of course, accused us of interfering, and went to bring him back. Then the daily visits started up again, until Swep warned them the little guy was becoming a nuisance, and that if they refused to take responsibility for him, we would have to return him to the shelter. Next time I took Charlie out there, I had a long talk with the lady at the reception, and she agreed that the cat should not be given back to his owners a second time. I felt terrible leaving him there, and a bit guilty to be 'abducting' somebody's cat that way, but she assured me it was the right thing to do. Well, the 'owners' never came to ask where Charlie was, and they never called the refuge, so after a couple of days I stopped feeling like such a criminal. About a week later, I received a call from SOS Animaux, saying they had found a wonderful new home for Charlie, with two lovely children for him to play with, and that he would be allowed to sleep on the sofa as much as he wanted for the rest of his life.
I hate being meddlesome. It's not the way I was raised. But when it comes to cats, I think that we breeders owe a certain responsibility not only to our own cats but to feline welfare everywhere. My husband and I enjoy a television program called Actors' Studio from the New School in New York. In each session an actor or director is interviewed before a gathering of drama students, and at the end a short questionnaire is posed: 'What word do you love most? What word do you hate? What excites you? What turns you off?' The final question is always, 'If there is a God, what would you like him to say to you when you get to heaven?' I remember Sharon Stone's answer: 'You done good, kid.' As for myself, I reckon on going to Valhalla and meeting up with Siegfried and Brünnhilde and all the Viking folk, so I expect I will find myself standing before the great goddess Freyja. When I look into her eyes, I would like to hear her say:
'Thank you for taking care of my cats.'
Paula Swepston©
Ferney-Voltaire, France
November 2001Big Fred and Freddy Junior lived with my family
in Greensboro, North Carolina, U.S.A., during the late 1960's & early 70's.
BACK TO
The Maison Forte site map
Return to NFO home page