In the spring of 2010, we adopted two kittens from the SPCA.
Normally I prefer to adopt older cats, as it’s harder for them to find homes, but it had been almost 3 years since we’d had any cats, and the kids had never had a kitten, so this one time we made an exception.
We were lucky to find two littermates, who we promptly named Lewis and Clark. They were so tiny and sweet, but incredibly independent. As they grew, they developed their own personalities. Clark was the hunter. Our mouse problem disappeared as he got big enough to keep them intimidated, and we would occasionally find “gifts” on our back porch. Lewis was the explorer, always wandering further and further afield. They were indoor cats for the first year, but once they were old enough and knew where home was, we started to let them have outdoor time. Lewis became more of an indoor/outdoor cat. He would insist on going out every morning when we did, then would come home for a few hours before going back out to patrol the neighborhood again, only to come home for dinner and the night.
But time went on, and when they were about 3, the worst happened. Clark was hit by a car. I wasn’t home, so Morgan was the one who got the news. He did a good job of collecting the body, but he was devastated. The kids all took it pretty hard. We had our traditional pet burial, with everyone sharing a good memory of the pet and asking him to send us our next one.
Lewis took it hard, too. He seemed….lost. Like he couldn’t figure out where Clark had gone. He moved in with Morgan and became pretty much exclusively his cat. He spent more time outside, even during the winter, really only being in the house at night.
I could understand that, and I’m entirely about letting a cat be a cat. I’m kind of a laissez faire pet owner. For me, pets aren’t children. They’re animals we share space with. Cats are hunters and explorers, and I respect that. We tried a couple of times to keep Lewis in, but he managed to escape every time, and it just became too frustrating for both sides, so we let him do what he wanted.
But I wanted a house cat. Hence our trip this winter back to the SPCA and the adoption of Hudson. Who has been a great addition to the house, except for one thing.
He and Lewis hate each other.
I’m used to cats not getting along when they first move in together. In all my past experiences, after a couple of weeks they adjust and, maybe not become good friends, but at least learn to cohabitate. Not these two. Lewis would hiss and yowl every time he saw Hudson, and Hudson would sit and stare at him daring him to try anything, or else stalk him, never initiating contact, just always being in Lewis’ space in a “Mom, he’s touching me!” kind of way.
By the time spring came, Lewis had had enough. He moved out. Permanently.
For a while he would still come home, but would never come in the house, just camp out on the front porch. Morgan and Eric set him up a shelter with food and water there, and would go out and give him attention whenever he’d come around. By mid summer, though, even that had stopped.
We still see him around the neighborhood. This is a relief in some ways, to know he hasn’t been hit by a car or anything. He’s neutered, so he’s not adding to the neighborhood population. But he won’t come near us. This hurts Morgan the most, to have this cat who was HIS cat run away from him whenever he sees him, especially when Morgan has seen strangers able to approach him. I also feel bad because we’re responsible for him, even if he won’t let us take care of him. If we could, I’d like to catch him and try to re-integrate him into the house, but he won’t let us close enough to try.
It’s hard, mourning a cat who’s not dead. He’s not yours any more, but you can’t mourn him and move on, either. You just wait. And think about how you let him down.