Hi! I'm Oliver! This is Oliver. He showed up back in February, just out of the blue, an infrequent visitor that would skitter by the door, wary of humans in the way of most cats. Stray or feral, we really weren’t sure, not for a long time.
February was a cold snowy month, as always. Only February 2014 was a bit colder and snowier than usual. My husband (George) was away for a few weeks when we got our really big snow. Almost three feet that fell over the course of a day and a night. I thought about our furry visitor and started to worry. Domesticated cats stand less than a foot from the ground. How would he hunt? How would he find his way around in this deep, drifting ocean of snow? I put food out – just in case, just to get him through to the melt – and magically it disappeared. I didn’t see him at first, not for a couple of days, and half wondered if it was a raccoon or an opossum I was feeding and not the little grey tabby cat at all. And then I saw him, sneaking by the sliding glass door.
February was a cold snowy month, as always. Only February 2014 was a bit colder and snowier than usual. My husband (George) was away for a few weeks when we got our really big snow. Almost three feet that fell over the course of a day and a night. I thought about our furry visitor and started to worry. Domesticated cats stand less than a foot from the ground. How would he hunt? How would he find his way around in this deep, drifting ocean of snow? I put food out – just in case, just to get him through to the melt – and magically it disappeared. I didn’t see him at first, not for a couple of days, and half wondered if it was a raccoon or an opossum I was feeding and not the little grey tabby cat at all. And then I saw him, sneaking by the sliding glass door.
Hellloooo? Anyone in there? Food in the morning, food at night, a furry shadow creeping by the door, glancing in and then moving on. That was the routine for the next few weeks. I confessed to George about the feeding before he came home. He pretended to be disapproving (“We don’t need more cats, Jennie) and he was right to be. We already had two cats – both female, both spayed, both incredibly spoiled – and we’d had so many others show up over the years. Some we found homes for, others stayed for a while and then disappeared – dead, moved on, I never knew which. I like to think they were lost for a while and finally found their way home. It makes me feel better to think they found a happy ending I couldn’t offer. Here’s the thing: George pretended to be disapproving, but he wasn’t. I could tell by the way he asked after the cat every night: Had I seen him? Was he eating? How cold was it getting at night. Him, not it, though at that point we didn’t know. We couldn’t get close enough to know if the cat was male or female, so we guessed. In the end, we got it right.
Nothin' to see here. George came home and the feedings continued. Our visitor learned our patterns and started waiting for us outside, sitting patiently on the deck, staring inward. He was wary of us and would watch as we filled the bowl, would stand his ground as we crept close and then scurry a few feet away. He was wary of us but he was fascinated by our cats. He would sit on the deck for an hour and more watching them through the sliding glass door. That was another reason we thought he was male: All the boys like the ladies. Even the fixed ones.
Winter faded and spring approached. The weather grew warmer and we spent more and more time outside. Little by little we worked away at him, slowly winning his trust. We were able to get close enough now to almost touch him. Almost, but not quite. At this point we knew he wasn’t feral. You’d never get that close to a feral cat. Not in a few weeks. Likely not ever. But he was stray and shy so we had to be patient.
Our community has a feral cat problem. It’s common out here in the country. The homeowner’s association put out a letter, warning residents not to feed the feral cats. Not to encourage them in any way. “He’s not feral,” George told me. “He’s our cat.”
He was. He already was. And we hadn’t even been able to pet him yet. George named him Oliver, and Oliver it was.
Winter faded and spring approached. The weather grew warmer and we spent more and more time outside. Little by little we worked away at him, slowly winning his trust. We were able to get close enough now to almost touch him. Almost, but not quite. At this point we knew he wasn’t feral. You’d never get that close to a feral cat. Not in a few weeks. Likely not ever. But he was stray and shy so we had to be patient.
Our community has a feral cat problem. It’s common out here in the country. The homeowner’s association put out a letter, warning residents not to feed the feral cats. Not to encourage them in any way. “He’s not feral,” George told me. “He’s our cat.”
He was. He already was. And we hadn’t even been able to pet him yet. George named him Oliver, and Oliver it was.
Aw, yeah, that's the stuff! Oliver started sleeping on the deck a lot since it was sunny during the day, so George put a towel out so he wouldn’t have to lie on the hard boards. Oliver loved it. We got our first meow out of him not long after. Even some rolling around, like he wanted to be petted but just didn’t know how to let us. That’s how we got our first confirmed sighting: male, no doubt about it. Male and un-neutered. Intact, as they say. Had to do something about that.
A breakthrough: Oliver finally let us pet him! And after that first touch, he couldn’t get enough. He was twitchy and demanding and made it clear that there were certain ways and certain places he most definitely did not want to be touched, but now it wasn’t just food he wanted from us.
A breakthrough: Oliver finally let us pet him! And after that first touch, he couldn’t get enough. He was twitchy and demanding and made it clear that there were certain ways and certain places he most definitely did not want to be touched, but now it wasn’t just food he wanted from us.
This is a bit of alright. It was love. Attention. Scratches behind the ear. He also wanted our cats. Badly. In the Biblical sense. But they wanted nothing to do with him.
We talked to our friends in the rescue business about using live traps, the best ways to get him without stressing the poor cat out. But I had an idea. We got a crate – a large one, big enough to be a cat-sized apartment – and set it on the deck, with Oliver’s beloved towel inside. In he strolled like it was the most obvious thing in the world. So George called the vet and got Oliver a ‘tutoring’ appointment, and two days later, we lured him into the carrier with a bowl of food, closing it behind him pretty as you please. No muss, no fuss, just one confused looking Oliver.
We talked to our friends in the rescue business about using live traps, the best ways to get him without stressing the poor cat out. But I had an idea. We got a crate – a large one, big enough to be a cat-sized apartment – and set it on the deck, with Oliver’s beloved towel inside. In he strolled like it was the most obvious thing in the world. So George called the vet and got Oliver a ‘tutoring’ appointment, and two days later, we lured him into the carrier with a bowl of food, closing it behind him pretty as you please. No muss, no fuss, just one confused looking Oliver.
Forgiven. Oliver went off to the vet and the worry started. How would he react when we got him home? Would he take off and disappear forever or would he forgive us, if only because we were the providers of food? We hatched a plan to release him on the screen porch, thinking he’d have some room to move around but wouldn't be able to escape. Bringing him inside was not an option, unfortunately. The other two wouldn’t have it.
Oliver was surprisingly calm on the ride home from the vet. Drugs maybe, who knows. He freaked out a bit when we released him from the carrier, scurrying to one side, knocking head first into the screening, backing up with a confused look on his face. George and I tried to be patient, offering soothing words and fingers for scratching. Two minutes later, all was forgiven. Oliver was our cat. We’d claimed him. Now he claimed us.
It’s been three weeks now since Oliver first let us touch him. Things are better, but far from perfect. He’s still a bit twitchy and he’s young and sometimes unpredictable (he looked up at George the other day and knocked his glasses clean off his face for no apparent reason), but he’s a lovable bugger. He still wants our cats. Badly. He’s a boy cat with boy urges, but we’re hoping they’ll fade as the hormones flush from his system. Until then, he’s staying outside. Not that that’s all that bad. He gets food and lots of scratches, the sun and clean air and the wind in his fur. Oh and a house upgrade. We got him this pretty swank, insulated, M*A*S*H style cat house that he thinks is the bee knees. So, yeah. Oliver’s got it rough.
Oliver was surprisingly calm on the ride home from the vet. Drugs maybe, who knows. He freaked out a bit when we released him from the carrier, scurrying to one side, knocking head first into the screening, backing up with a confused look on his face. George and I tried to be patient, offering soothing words and fingers for scratching. Two minutes later, all was forgiven. Oliver was our cat. We’d claimed him. Now he claimed us.
It’s been three weeks now since Oliver first let us touch him. Things are better, but far from perfect. He’s still a bit twitchy and he’s young and sometimes unpredictable (he looked up at George the other day and knocked his glasses clean off his face for no apparent reason), but he’s a lovable bugger. He still wants our cats. Badly. He’s a boy cat with boy urges, but we’re hoping they’ll fade as the hormones flush from his system. Until then, he’s staying outside. Not that that’s all that bad. He gets food and lots of scratches, the sun and clean air and the wind in his fur. Oh and a house upgrade. We got him this pretty swank, insulated, M*A*S*H style cat house that he thinks is the bee knees. So, yeah. Oliver’s got it rough.
 A mere 2 weeks after 1st contact. |  A little patience and persistence gave us a new friend. |
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