Mittens found herself in quarantine for five weeks instead of the usual four, mainly because I made a mistake and didn’t trust my instincts.  I should know better by now, but …   Anyway, after her first week in the Little Barn’s large cat crate, we began spending more and more time sitting with her, talking with her, trying to stroke her or entice her to play.  Gradually, she became more accepting of my hands as they smoothed her fur between her ears or under her throat, but she would always reach a point ~ rather quickly ~ where she’d had enough and would hiss and try to bite.  I wasn’t particularly worried because I knew she was safe and was eating. Each morning, her dish of food was empty, and I would need to clean the litter box.  Whenever I’d see her outside of feeding times, though, she would always be in the back of the crate, laying down and watching, eyes slits, ears following whatever barn noises she was hearing.  I always had the feeling that she was just waiting for the life she’d known to come back.  Or for the crate door to open.

Three weeks into quarantine is usually when I take the dogs and cats to the vet.  In that time, they’ve come to know my voice and my smell and to have associated those pieces of me with feeding, if not yet with safety and fun.  So, following my routine, I called the vet and made the appointment. I was uneasy, though, because all my instincts told me that Mittens would fight being put in a carrier.  I had asked the vet for a mild sedative, but was told that it was against their policy to prescribe one until they had first seen the animal.  While I understood the policy, I knew it wasn’t going to work for Mittens.  

The day of her appointment, I tried to entice her into the carrier with tuna. She wouldn’t budge from the back wall of the crate. Then I tried fried chicken. Still no movement. Then ~ and here’s the part where my gut was screaming “NO!” ~  I gently reached into the crate to try to nudge her toward the door ~ and before my brain could register caution, her teeth came out, her claws came out, her tail went up, and Mittens successfully convinced me to withdraw from her crate and abandon all hope of getting her to go anywhere. After I had washed and bandaged the slashes and punctures on my hand, I went back to make sure Mittens was alright.  I found her resting in the back of the crate, tail twitching just a bit, eyes gone to slits, and lioness calm. I canceled the vet appointment.  

Don’t misunderstand ~ I believe in the best possible vet care for our residents. But I believe in building trusting relationships with each one first, and I was disgusted with myself because I had damaged three and a half weeks of trust building with Mittens.  So Mittens stayed in quarantine for another five days to ensure that when her Freedom Day came, she wouldn’t just run and risk all kinds of damage.  It also gave me the chance to spend more time sitting with her, talking with her, and slowly stroking her ears and neck again. 

When her Freedom Day did come, John and I went into the Little Barn, talking to Mittens the entire time. We slowly opened the door to the crate, making sure to stand very still so we didn’t spook her.  Mittens was at her place in the back of the crate.  One minute passed ~ Mittens didn’t move.  Two minutes passed ~ not even a twitch of an ear. Three minutes passed ~ and John and I thought that maybe we ought to be the ones moving away from the crate! We did.  I began my morning chores in the barn, and John went in the house to grade papers. I checked the crate every ten minutes or so until, after about thirty minutes, I glanced in. No Mittens. I looked around the room ~ no Mittens. I looked outside ~ no Mittens.  I never saw her move, and I didn’t see where she went. She just wasn’t there anymore.  

We gave her the day to settle a bit, wherever she was, and then we started looking for her.  Unfortunately, our farm has six barns/outbuildings with at least 10,000 nooks and crannies for cats to hide in.  We didn’t find her that evening…or the next day … or the next.  We felt horrible. I walked the busy street that runs by our house every day, praying that I wouldn’t find that Mittens had been hit by a car.  I called to her every time I went outside. No Mittens.  Then, one morning, there she was, greeting John by the chicken coop door. The next day, she made her way to the passage between the Little Barn where she had stayed in quarantine and the big barn. Slowly, I enticed her into the Little Barn with cat food. Slowly, she came to join us as we sat in the evening with the other cats between the barns. Slowly, she began trusting us. 

Last night, John took the picture above of Mittens laying on her side on top of the stone wall that is beside our chairs between the barns. She has made tremendous progress in joining our colony. Miracle was the first to befriend her, and now she and Tiger can walk right past Mittens as she eats without sending any of them fleeing in a hissing fit. Mittens just keeps on eating.  Echo is still wary of the new-comer, and Steve goes into major panther mode whenever he sees her. This morning, though, Tiger, Echo, Miracle and Mittens were almost playing together in the cool dawn air between the barns. At least the four of them were peacefully coexisting, ears alert, tails twitching just at the tips. Almost friends.

I will try again to get Mittens into the vet, if only for her rabies vaccine. But I’m not going to push anything. At five or six years old, Mittens is the oldest cat we’ve rescued, and she’s made it very clear that life will be lived on her terms. I’m so happy to watch her beginnings here ~ I’m fairly sure that by the time the snow flies, she’ll be comfortable in the Little Barn and will be able to sleep in a fine new cat bed and stay warm and safe. And every so often, maybe even engage in a game of catch the mouse with the other cats.