He’s a very sweet adult Russian Blue that we adopted through a rescue organization in Brooklyn that I’m not going to name because I would never recommend them. They’re doing good work, but they really don’t make it easy or pleasant. Adopting a homeless adult cat should be a no-brainer. They should say, oh, you’re willing to do that (and are not a pet hoarder or vivisectionist)? TAKE IT PLUS A MEDAL YOU BEAUTIFUL SAINTED ANGELS. Instead, there are stacks of paperwork and references and a home visit and the pre-visit phone call I had to field while I was at work because I stupidly answered honestly on the form where it asked if the cat was going to go outside and I said well, we have a deck so maybe, sure. It’s true, first of all, and I’d think it would be a positive thing to let the little guy get some fresh air sometimes. This one doesn’t strike me as a bolter, but I can always get a leash and tie it to a railing so he can’t run.
She started ranting at me about how terrible it is to let cats go outside just because I dream about watching it chase butterflies (er, what?). Some of her points were valid (cars, contact with other cats who could have FIV), some of them were LUDICROUS (she actually mentioned COYOTES as a possibility—she lives one neighborhood over from us, so she should know that there aren’t any coyotes in south Brooklyn), and she just wouldn’t stop talking, even though I kept saying “It’s okay, we don’t need to let it out, it’s just an option since we have outdoor space” over and over. She got super wound up and was talking faster and faster and I could practically hear the spittle flying from the corners of her mouth. And she was really condescending—at one point snottily asking if I’ve ever even HAD pets before (because I clearly care so little about their welfare, you see). I finally had to interrupt her and say that I’d give my husband her number so they could schedule a time for the home inspection that would work for both of them and said goodbye and hung up. (I didn’t mention the leash option, since I couldn’t handle a lecture about how the cat will strangle himself with it or a hawk might get him or a sniper might use him for target practice or or or.)
The visit itself was fine—apparently she was perfectly nice to Rob and said she hoped she hadn’t offended me—and the only issue she pointed out was a possible toxicity risk from the HANGING PLANT in our living room. (Because he’s secretly a flying cat? I mean, I guess it’s somewhere within the realm of possibility that it could launch itself from a piece of furniture, pull down a few bits of plant, and eat them, but I just don’t think it’s likely. He’s not a small cat and, frankly, doesn’t seem to have that kind of ambition.)
It’s all worth it to have him home with us though. Cats are such a nice warm presence in a house and I’ve missed having one. We had decided to wait to name him until we’d spent a little time with him and in those early days, Rob started referring to him as Our Fuzzy Friend, which has since morphed into Fuzz and Fuzzy, with the official full name of Fuzz Ferdinand. He’s still hanging out in the closet some of the time, but he was snuggling on the couch with us the first night and even let me clip his claws yesterday morning.