I moved to Alaska with my little rescue cats...a bonded pair of little black "Panthers". Aiden (aka Baby Phat, that was his gangster cat name), was the braver of the brothers...a loving, rounded, food orientated tubby ball of purrs. Harry, the more tentative, people shy guy, stuck to his brother like glue and used him as a shield between himself and the human in the house. I always said Harry was basically a feral cat that roamed my house. Well, in 2020 Aiden went into kidney failure at the age of 8...too young. We managed a hospitalization, a brief recovery, and 3 months of home care with giving iv fluids and daily meds...but I couldn't save him. His little body gave out and he passed away at home on a gray November day wrapped in my arms and tears.
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| Aiden, aka Baby Phat |
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| Aiden loved cat grass, chickadees, and killing flowers |
I was devastated and broken hearted. My little snugglebug who was waiting at the top of the stairs every day as I walked in the door. The fuzzle who crashed across the bed and laid across me purring at the sound of the first snooze alarm, wanting to be cuddled just a few minutes more before the start of every day. Little Aiden who curled up by my head on whatever couch I was on, who hunted every chicken meal I ever had. He comically swatted a chicken wing right out of my hands once. And he was often sighted standing with 2 feet on the floor, upright, two on the window, watching birds and plotting a summer barbecue. About the only thing more heartbreaking than my loss, was Harry's. His protector, his security blanket, his wayfinder in the world, suddenly gone. They used to sleep, curled up like a little yin and yan...Harry always the back piece, Aiden the front keeping his smaller brother insulated with his own self from whatever fears they knew before I found them in the shelter in Bermuda.
Both Harry and I were too broken hearted to bring another kitty in the home. And we weren't sure where life was going to take us, the work VISA was up for renewal in just 2 months. We sat together, with an Aiden shaped gap between us. He meowed, offered up his back for scratches here and there, came by for an ear rub, but he was obviously lonely. And life wasn't going too well on the human front. There was a little pandemic going on, which kept me kind of busy at work....crazy busy. While the rest of the world transitioned to working from home, I transitioned to working from home from 7pm til midnight, and sometimes again from 5-7am , and then went in for the normal hours. There was no more cross border travel, and that meant renewal of the work VISA had to happen in a different way. There was a delay, and so while I was granted the immigration approval to keep working, that isn't recognized by other government agencies, like the DMV. So I found myself without a driver's license. Coworkers and the employee were committed to getting me to and fro work each day, which worked for a couple of months. And then the paperwork came in, and for reasons not entirely clear at the time, my VISA renewal was denied. That meant I would have 30 days to leave the country, or I could cross the border and present at the border, and ask for a VISA renewal in the old fashioned way.
This presented a number of problems. At that time, flying into Canada meant a 2 week quarantine, and you could only fly into 5 Canadian cities....none of which were near where I needed to get to. If the VISA was successful after that wait, then you just come back. But if it's denied, there is no guarantee of re-enterring the country to wrap up affairs. What do you do the apartment, the furniture, etc? And so that meant that crossing the border meant the poor feral cat had to come too. There was also the issue of the car...I didn't want to sell it, but I was no longer in possession of a valid driver's license in any country. The US wouldn't budge, Bermuda was a scooter license (driving down the Alaska highway on a scooter loaded up with all my worldly possessions and a feral cat is not an option I considered, but in retrospect, it may have been the easiest path!), and Canada said they could only help me if I presented in person. I looked at options like having a friend or family member travel with me...but the Canadian friends and family weren't allowed across the border because it was non-essential travel (in government eyes at least) and vice versa for the American friends. We looked at options like trying to drive across the border without a valid driver's license (that seemed particularly dumb), tried to get approvals to friends to cross one way or the other, but even if approved, both parties needed a 2 week quarantine on either side. I finally called the Canadian embassy to see if there was anything they could do to help get me home. It took a while, but they called me back with a plan. The American friends could drive me as far as the American side of the Alaska Canada border. The Canadians could drive to the Canadian side of the border. Neither party would be permitted to cross, and the Canadian side had the special element of the person driving in only being permitted a set amount of hours to transit the Yukon and NWT (designed for 1 way without stopping), or we would all have to do a 2 week quarantine in the great white north. They instructed me that I would have to walk from the American side of the border to the Canadian side. "Here's the thing," they say. "It's a bit of a walk between those stations." I recall the drive, and it is a bit of a way. "Do you know how far that is?" I asked, thinking it was at least 5 km. "36 kilometers," they said. "Your plan is for me to walk 36 kilometers carrying my cat THROUGH BEAR COUNTRY?" "Yes maam," they said. Oh, and since my VISA was no longer valid, they mentioned if I did manage to bring my relatively new car, I would have to pay an import tax coming (6 or 7% of the market value of the car), and reimport it to the US or another fee /when the VISA approval went through.
So, we went back to other plans. I started trying to get back across the border without being forced to stay 3-14 days in a $200+ a night quarantine hotel, which let's be honest, is about the least safe thing you can do in a pandemic. Shared HVAC systems...no thanks, I'd rather walk with my feral cat though the field of bears. Came pretty close to a plan where me, the feral cat, and 2 retired former coworkers who found the ridiculousness of this too hilarious to not partake in, would fly to Montana, get a rental car, and they would drop me at the border. Ultimately, I stuffed my depressed feral cat into the carrier and booked a one way ticket to Great Falls, Montana on my own. The cat did not travel well. He pooped once right in the customs inspection room, almost creating an almost international incident on whether or not they now needed to xray the poop for contraband...and it is against the rule to leave things behind in the screening room, so I then had to proceed through the rest of screening room with the cat AND the poop. Once I finally got the little guy to a change room to change the pad...he was so stressed out that he pooped again about 5 minutes into the flight...and of course I only packed 1 extra pee pad. We checked into the Airport lounge in Seattle where I could at least get him a quiet spot, try to wipe him down, and chug a few wines to deal with my own stress. Then it was off to Great Falls, where the cat, now reminded what boarding an aircraft is life, and disliking takeoff, yowled at the top of his lungs on the entire climb to altitude. I was so grateful to be landing in Great Falls and heading for the hotel, but fun fact, when you land in that tiny airport at 10pm...there are no taxi cabs. At all. Ever. They were flicking the lights out at the airport while we were picking up luggage, and I stepped out into the darkness, with my poopy cat, into the desolate silence of a Prairie night. A lady getting picked up by her daughter looked at me and said "honey, where on earth are you going?" She told me my hotel was several miles away, and there were no cabs, and she giggled when I said Uber? The universe wanted me to hike through the unknown with my feral cat...but the kind lady offered me a ride (her daughter was much less excited about taking this stranger and her cat on a joyride), and, not I usually being the type to hitchike, was a little wary but ever so grateful. No mid west axe murdering occurred.
I got to the hotel, which gratefully had a wardrobe with doors. In my exodus from America, I could once again do an international move with just 100 pounds of luggage, and a carryon cat. 100 pounds sounds like a lot, but sit down with 2 suitcases and a scale and figure out which parts of your life you will carry with you into the future. It's always less adventurous than it sounds. So from the 100 pounds I was allocated, I pulled out the cardboard box and small bag of litter to may a disposable litter pan for Harry. And his cat food. Speaks volumes to how fond I am of the little fuzzball, he took up a good chunk of the allocation for possessions. I hosed down the carrier, and scrubbed down the poopy feral cat (he was too weary and scared to fight it much), and then tucked him in the closet and closed to the door all but a crack so he could pass out with exhaustion. He didn't try to leave the closet once, he was so grateful for a quiet hidey space.
In the morning, I grabbed a coffee, stuffed the poor animal back into the carrier, and took a $400 taxi ride to the Canadian border. They got me "as close as they could", within a few hundred feet at least, and unceremoniously drove off. Leaving me to walk the rest of the way of the road (it's a highway), dragging 2 suitcases and a feral cat in a bag. You would think there is a footpath, or an foot entrance to the building, but nope, I stood there on the road with my cat and my luggage behind the semi, in front of the big Dodge truck behind me giving me the evil eye, and walked up to the border window. I walked back into my mother country like the bedraggled, bewildered, weary pandemic refugee that I was.
After standing in line, declaring my life's possessions in those 2 suitcases in my "repatriation documents", and being snubbed by the one agent who didn't want to deal with the cat, I was kicked out to the other side to do a mandatory covid test (despite the vaccine card, and 48 hr negative test I had just presented to the agents 10 minutes earlier). I was 'alllowed' to quarantine at my brother's house, and so he was allowed to pick me up as long as we didn't stop anywhere. Once I arrived, I was not permitted to exit the house for 2 weeks for any reason, and Canada actually spent the money to call and ask you what you were doing, where are you, have you left the house? It was insanity.
Anyway, after what seemed like an eternity, but was really only about 6 weeks, I had all updated documents and guidance from the lawyer to present to the border. At this point neither me, the lawyer, nor the employer really thought I was getting back. We still didn't understand the rejection. But if I did get back, all the same pandemic restrictions applied. There was no back and forth. So I stuffed the poor feral cat back into the bag for the first flight to Calgary. He yowled all the way to altitude, and then some, and I was so grateful for the kindness of all the other passengers saying they felt bad for the poor little guy (rather than parachuting him out the side door). On the next flight to Vancouver, the cat was having none of it, and actually started yowling on the tarmack as we walked to the plane. I rented an overpriced rental car that could cross the border to Seattle, and hopped in, expecting to be rejected and, now out of quarantine, already planning a short excursion in Vancouver for me and the feral cat for the next few days. At the border, the first question I got was "what took you so long to leave the US after you got notice your visa was expired?" He didn't have much to say after I reiterated this tale. They had me pull over, and wait about 2 hours, while they scoured the paperwork, had me to do more, then came out and told me the VISA fee was something like $56. I tried not to look too surprised, handed it over, and he said, yeah, looks like someone checked the wrong box on your last application, shouldn't have been an issue. Now I had no words.
So I drove on down the road, on the US side, a little in shock, and pulled into the first Starbucks I saw to grab a coffee and snack, because I had absolutely no plan for this. I pulled out my laptop, and starting looking for a flight to Anchorage -- I hadn't even purchased one yet -- and a hotel for the night. Me and the feral cat were 1 flight away from returning to our old life. And when we did get back, and I set his carrier down in our old home (which I had kept), and zipped it open, it was the most relief I have ever seen on that little face. I plopped down on to the couch, and Harry did something he had never done before in his life, and may never do again. He crawled up and laid across me, his head on my shoulder, and purred. We were back.
So, now that THAT was over. I still had a lonely feral cat that needed a friend. With a 3 year lease on my working life, I felt like it was safe to start looking for another cat. But I didn't know if I was ready. I started watching all the rescue sites, and wasn't sure if Harry would be good with a kitten, or if it was fair to him ot get a kitten, or fair to the kitten. And with kittens, they're like Lay's potato chips, you really can't have just one. So I did some googling and the google said a male cat of the same age would be the likely best fit. I still wasn't ready. So I looked at it through the eyes of finding a companion for Harry, who looked so sad everyday when I came home.
Perusing Facebook one day, one of the local rescues had some photos up, and there was someone who caught my eye. A big, tabby male, with all the same colorings as my first cat Lexi...the light brown tummy and all. He wasn't super fluffy, but looked like he might be a long hair. "Mufasa - adopted!" the caption said. For the first time, I felt like I missed out on what might have been the right cat for both me and Harry. I kicked myself for not being more on top of it, and decided not to let it happen again. I called the local humane society to inquire about a little black and white fluffball there whose owner had died, and kept trolling the rescue sites.
The next weekend I willed myself to go to Petsmart, which showcases rescue cats every weekend for adoption. I hadn't heard back from the Humane Society, so thought I would just go look at the Second Hand Cat Store and see what they had in stock. I braved myself to go up to the adoption center to start looking in the windows. And there, in the top right hand window, much to my surprise, was the same big tabby from the site the last weekend. "What are you doing here?" I whispered to the kitty behind the glass. "Returned" the sign on his window said. He looked at me with big golden eyes. They let me in, and I explained I was looking for a companion for my 8 year old, very shy cat. Do you have any 8 year olds, I ask? They plucked Mufasa out of his kitty jail cell and plopped him on my lap. "Here, this guy is 8 and very chill." He glanced nervously up from my lap, did one half turn and curled into a ball and gave a nervous purr. "Oh, you're a big kitty...but you like me don't you" He didn't really answer, but he really was a big kitty...at least twice Harry's size, and he did kind of seem to like me. I asked if he was good with other cats, and they didn't really know. Allergies is the reason they gave for the return, they told me. As I sat in the second hand cat store holding the only third hand cat in sight, they tried to upsell me on some other kitties they had that needed good homes that weren't on site. And that all of their kitties came with a 10 day return policy, but nobody goes home on day 1. I could come back tomorrow after thinking about it and take home Mufasa, or anyone else I wanted.
So I went home to sleep on it. I looked at little Harry, and wondered if Mufasa would be a good fit, being so much bigger. I wondered about the other cats they told me about. But as the night went on, my heart was set on the big-little tabby, who had been shaved (so might be fluffier thatn I realized). I went back the next day, and they were happy to show me the other cats they brought in, all of who squirmed and immediately jumped out of my lap, showed no interest in me whatsoever. I'd like to take Mufasa home, I said. So I tucked him into the carrier and off we went, on the 10 day trial. Now anybody who know me knows the cat is never going back, but I continued to pretend this was a trial run.
Mufasa settled right into the couch for the first of many long naps. It took quite a while for he and Harry to become snugglebuddies, and to be honest, it mostly happens where Harry sneaks in to snuggle his already sleeping brother. I didn't like the hardness of all the consonants in "Mufasa", it doesn't fit with such a fluffy soft being, so, I kept it as his official Microchip name, but he immediately became something much more fitting...as a mature cat, with what looks to be a little frowny face, I named him something which would be both adorable and ridiculously cute...Mr. Muffins.
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| Mr. Muffins posing a for Valentine's Day meme |
I will never understand how such a beautiful, soft, good natured kitty ended up in the second hand cat store. I have a couple of theories. One being he was the adored and pampered kitty of someone who died in the pandemic...because how else would someone else turn him into the second hand cat store? Another where he was the spoiled cat of someone rich and famous, RV'ing across North America. In a legendary story, he was separated from his people by a pack of wolves, escaped, and was rescued by woodland thugs, who removed his diamond collar and dumped him at a shelter. The third is that he was the adored baby of a family who had a little girl, who dressed him up like a doll and dragged him everywhere, but they moved away and left him behind. Or, his last rabies shot can be traced to Kodiak, so I could presume he roamed the wild there as the Cat King of Kodiak, master of the grizzly bears, commander of the humpback whales. I guess I will never know for sure, but these are my best guesses.
And once the fur grew out, oh my goodness, is he ever fluffy again! It was the shaved fur that gave me the idea he might be cold, so I bought him a little jacket. And this is where the theory that he belonged to a little girl comes from, because the cat loves dress up.
The other thing I realized...was Mr. Muffins was probably an only cat. He was quite horrified to think another cat had snuck into his house when Harry emerged from his hiding spot in the closet. There was hissing, swatting, and an amazingly fast chase for a cat that otherwise fails to move. But for Harry, it was love at first site. A brother again...and a BIG one, perfect to protect him from the scary world. Mr. Muffins was determined to have none of it, but Harry worked on nothing else but getting close to him for months. Millimeter by millimeter he worked his way closer. He would wait til he fell asleep. And inch a tiny bit closer, and sit patiently for hours til Mr. Muffins woke up and told him to back off again. But Harry was persistent, and has worn Mr. Muffins down. He still slinks in next to him while he is sleeping, just in case he is grumpy, but then when Mr. Muffins wakes up he is pretty much used to the persistent little brother being stuck to him now.
Now, it has dawned on me that the Second Hand Cat Store charges the same for all cats. It didn't take long to realize that the cat may be the world's laziest cat...it goes from nap to nap and snack to snack, barely batting an eyelid. While Harry flits around the house, ping ponging off of things like a tennis ball, I realize that I either purchased a defective cat or a cat that is much older than the stated age of 8. To quote a friend "honey, when you walk into the second hat cat store asking for an 8 year old cat, all the cats are 8 years old". So my elderly, malfunctioning, thirdhand cat perhaps should have been discounted. But, he is priceless to me!
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| Mr. Muffins in all his fluffy laziness as I type this |
So, that's the long, drawn out story of how Mr. Muffins came to be in our home. And the moral of the story is, support your local second hand cat store, they are filled with treasures.
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