My last few essays have been a bit heavy, so I thought I’d lighten things up a bit today.  Those of you who are cat owners will appreciate this essay.  Those of you who are not cat owners will probably be convinced to never own a cat.  This is the story of bringing a new cat into the house.

Losing our not-quite-six-year-old Maine Coon mix, Beau, was dramatic, as you know.  He was an awesome cat and replacing him would be impossible.  However.  Little Miss Bridget was quickly showing signs that she would not be a good “only” cat.  Bridget had a hard start in life.  She was abandoned, as a kitten, on the Platt Bridge in South Philly and somehow hit the lottery and found herself adopted by us.  She still carries scars (we believe) from that rough beginning.  Girl has an attitude (see this essay for more on that).  But without her chill big brother Beau, Bridget was quickly becoming excessively clingy and showing signs of separation anxiety when we would leave the house.  We knew we had to get her a playmate—or, at least, another cat to torture.

Socializing cats versus dogs is a very different exercise.  Dogs are pack animals and quickly (so I’m told) develop a dominance order and everyone learns their role in the pack.  Cats are solitary by nature and tolerate other cats only if they bring something useful to the table.  Female cats that are established in a household are particularly territorial.  Blood sacrifice is required from all beings (human and feline) when a new entrant arrives.  Bridget, as a torty (tortoise shell coloring), has attitude to spare.  We knew our best chance to introduce another cat was to get a kitten, preferably male, and preferably very soon.

I will admit that I wasn’t ready.  I was still in mourning.  I will also admit to saying Kaddish for Beau for the requisite 30 days of Shloshim.  But Trish saw a picture of a little fluff ball on Facebook and the die was cast.  (Spoiler alert:  I am totally smitten by him.)  We picked him up about a week and a half ago, and the adventure began.  He was so good on the hour-long ride home!  He is a six-month-old domestic long hair male, whom we named Baxter in a nod to Beau.  I am convinced Beau sent him to us.

It has been a long time since either of us has had a real kitten.  We had to be reminded of a lot of things, such as how their claws are like needles.  And how they can be very skittish.  And how much energy they have.  We had set up our sunroom for him since we could close it off yet Bridget could keep an eye on him through the French doors.  I set him down when we got home around 2:30 in the afternoon and he immediately ran under the couch.  He did not emerge for 12 hours.  I made the first of many panicked phone calls to my bestie, who works at a cat rescue.  She has been my Voice of Reason.  “What have we done?!” I exclaimed.  “This kitten is never going to come out from under this couch and Bridget will hate us forever!”  “Give it time,” she soothed.  “It’s going to take time.”

I took the first night on the couch.  Sometime after midnight, I woke up to the sounds of a kitten exploring.  I spent the rest of the night coaxing him over, trying to soothe him between runs back under the couch, and getting him to eat and (thankfully) use the litter box.  Dawn found me totally exhausted but with Baxter lying between my knees and shredding the skin on my fingers.  Trish came downstairs looking annoyingly rested and he immediately dove under the couch again.

He did not come out all day.  All day!  We were watching TV in the evening and noticed he had just ventured out under cover of darkness.  He would come to the French doors to look into the family room, but if we dared to go into the sunroom, back under the sofa he would go.  Trish’s night with him went something like mine had gone the night before.  I came down, annoyingly rested, to an exhausted Trish who was lying on the sofa with Baxter between her knees and shredding her fingers.  She had been up all night.  As soon dawn broke, under the couch he went.  “We appear to have adopted a Vampire cat,” I said.  “We should have named him Vlad.”

Over the next few days, we moved him up into our bedroom (since the temperature dropped and the sunroom was just too cold) and made slow but steady progress.  I made hourly panicked calls to Beth, who patiently reinforced that we were doing all the right things and reminded me this process take time.  Little by little, he came out of his shell.  He has proven to be a real snuggler and an amazingly good-natured cat.  We have got ourselves a winner.

At this point, you must be wondering how Bridget is adapting to this new entrant.  Well, when we first brought him into the house, I leaned down close to Bridget (but not too close!) and introduced her new little brother.  She back up sideways a step or two and gave me a wide-eyed look that can only be described as “What fresh HELL is this?!”  Over the next week, we did a couple of supervised introductions.  Baxter’s ears would flatten as she let loose a growl from deep in her gut and finished off with a first-class hiss.

The most unnerving part of socializing new animals is that at some point you need to just let them work it out.  We started letting Baxter wander and explore with one of us following him.  When Bridget would encounter him, little Miss Bitchy McBitch Face would give him a few solid hisses and back away.  We feel fairly confident, though, that she’s not going to hurt him.  This is why you get a kitten.  As I edit this essay for publication, we have him in free roam.  We’ll hear the occasional hiss and growl, but aren’t worried.  Baxter has stopped flattening his ears and just gets down in a submissive pose.  Bridget gives him “what for” and walks away.  I suspect this will continue at some level for a couple of months.  Cats.  So much fun!

Bringing Baxter in the house was ill-timed in the sense that I felt that our lives were finally getting back to some sense of normal after a crazy couple of months and suddenly we were tossed back into total disruption.  Baxter will never replace Beau.  He is bringing his own love to us.  As a wise person once told me, “True healing begins when you realize that hole in your heart is really an opening.”