My sister loves cats. This past week, she and a colleague trapped a feral cat at their workplace, and he is now imprisoned in her garage. It is clear that he sees himself in prison. He sits in his litter box and howls whenever anyone comes into the garage. And then there’s the hissing. And anyone brave or dumb enough to attempt a pat will get a clawed swipe. In order to soothe him, my sister put one of her tshirts in the cage in the hope that he would get used to her smell. He put it in the litter box. It’s hard not to see that as a rejection.
My sister plans to get him fixed and then take him out to a friend’s farm where he should have a much more secure and happy life. Of course, he doesn’t know this; he’s only a cat.
Yet I’ve been like this cat on more than one occasion. I’ve gotten so used to a less-than-ideal situation that I mistook the discomfort of transition with a pain that had to be avoided at all cost. I still have to remind myself to examine closely current discomforts and see if there is something better on the other side. And if so, keep going.
This is what my sister keeps trying to tell the cat, but he keeps yowling too loud to hear her.