There are four of them. A very young, very thin mother and her three innocent kittens.
They're living in the palm frondy Florida bushes outside my apartment building, subsisting off lizards and the dry food a few of us neighbors have been sliding under a staircase to keep it covered from the torrential summer rain.
At night, while the rain plops onto the concrete and pings off the metal staircase, I sit on the bottom step and offer them canned food, which they devour. A few of them come closer each time they see me (I'm The Tasty Food Lady). But then they scurry off, looking over their shoulders with primal suspicion.
Last night, two of my friends who volunteer at a cat shelter came by with animal traps (which are spring-loaded and perfectly safe and humane), and instructions. We've set a plan into motion:
1. They'll make an appointment at a vet
2. Once we have the appointment, I'll go about trying to catch all of them in these traps where they'll stay just a few hours, inside my apartment
3. My friends will pick the cats up that night, take them to the vet first thing the next morning, and get them spayed, neutered, de-flead, and vaccinated
4. They'll bring the cats back to my place to recover from their surgeries, where they'll live in my air conditioned laundry room (to keep them safely separated from Malcolm, who might freak out) with blankets, towels, a litter box, toys, and all the wet food they can eat until we find foster homes for them (apparently, this is "Kitten Season," and all the local shelters are at full capacity for cats and kittens)
5. I will then fall madly in love with all four of them, decide we need a bigger place, and move to a beat-up old country house in Eustis with three bedrooms, a built-in gun rack and a neighbor who deep fries gator tail.
It's gonna be great! You'll see!
Ssshhh...be very quiet. I'm trying to catch a kitten.
About a week ago as I was leaving my apartment complex for work, I saw a little black cat running into some bushes. I had my usual reaction to seeing stray animals which was "I should try to catch him and take him somewhere safe. He could get hit by a car. If I leave him (or her), I'll be thinking about him all day, worrying that he's hurt, starving, or worse...that something horrible will befall him."
But then pragmatic logic set in, "You're already late for work. You can't be late today because there's a 9:30 meeting. Where would you take him? Your vet? How would you catch him? He could have rabies. He probably belongs to someone."
So I drove to work. Yet, in the back of my mind I promised myself that if I saw him (or her) again, I'd do something.
Tonight, as I was coming home from Publix with my trunk full of grocery bags, I saw him again, peering out of the same bushes—this time right at me. He's not tiny. I'd say about 2-4 months old (I'm terrible at guessing ages, cats or people, which is why I'm continually attracted to male celebrities only to find out they're 30 or 32, leaving me feeling both old and creepy).
After hauling my bags upstairs, I dug out Linus' old food dish and filled it with wet food. He (or she) came towards me at first—then stopped (I know this trick). I sat there very quietly, as the daily thunderstorm rolled in. After 30 minutes of our staring contest I left the dish and went upstairs. Ten minutes later the dish was empty.
My plan (not that I really had one) was to eventually zip him into Malcolm's pet carrier, keep him separated from Malcolm in his own room, take him to my vet down the road, get him a checkup and any necessary shots (or medicine), and—if the vet said he (or she) was up for it, health-wise, bring him home and gradually introduce him to Malcolm.
If they seemed to get along, I'd adopt him (or her).
But he wouldn't come near me. So I made him a little shelter/fort, which I left right outside my front door, complete with a comfy Downy-fresh towel to sleep on, and food and water. My front door is recessed a bit from the main wall, so it's not highly visible to the neighbors.
I'm really hoping when I wake up tomorrow, the food will be gone.
And maybe...just maybe...if I keep this up over time, I can get him to a vet.
And maybe...just maybe...I'll end up with a new friend and Malcolm won't eat him or poop in my shoes.
Is this a good idea? Not really.
But in a strange way I can't explain, I feel like I don't have a choice.
UPDATE: He ate most of the food! I don't know why this makes me so happy, but I'm positively ecstatic!
