Rough going with the rescues
We’re still getting cats out of what we think of as the Grey Gardens House—a gigantic historic mansion where two elderly people hoarded stuff and cats until one died and the other needed care for dementia. The first five cats we got out weren’t bad—all were fixed and reasonably socialized older cats.
The last three were all tomcats. Yes, these people had intact tomcats in the house. All three are now housed in my basement and reek to high heaven. One was fixed Tuesday, another will be fixed this coming Tuesday, the third just arrived this morning and hasn’t been scheduled yet.
These stinky tomcats, because their owners weren’t competent in their declining years, were dealt with by being shut into rooms by themselves. The one we just had neutered was estimated to be nine years old. He’s not feral, but is fearfully huddled in the corner of his cage because he hasn’t been out of his room and has had barely any human contact for his entire life. The one we got this morning is still having a panic attack.
We have at least three more cats to go. Honestly, getting these cats fixed up, let alone adopted, feels like mission impossible right now.
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