The Story of Boots

It was an unusual Saturday: nothing on the calendar and nothing that absolutely had to get done that day. A lovely, relaxing day stretched before us as we decided what to do.

There were some stubborn weeds in the front yard that had been driving us crazy for weeks, so we decided they had to go. Unfortunately we couldn’t find our gardening gloves (hm; I wonder if that’s why the weeds had gotten so out of hand?) so the first stop was to pick up some new ones. We also needed to buy cat food and pick up a few things at Target. One large “big box” mall had Lowe’s, PetSmart and Target, so that’s where we went. Even though we actually did have all day, we’re efficient by nature.

We actually got in and out of Lowe's without getting anything other than our gardening gloves, although of course we browsed some. The next stop was PetSmart, and that proved our undoing.

As we pulled in front of the store we noticed a large, oddly shaped white van out front containing the boldly lettered words, "SPCA Mobile Adoption Unit." Just inside the sliding double glass doors, the Montgomery County Society for the Protection of Cruelty to Animals had set up a bank of portable cages filled with half a dozen cats for which they were desperately seeking homes.

At this point, I should probably mention that we already had three cats and a special-needs dog. I had adopted Shadow eight years ago, when I was just there to buy rabbit food. Bill had adopted Ollie to replace his first wife (see Ollie's Tale.) Bill's daughter had adopted Sherwood in Ohio, moved in with us right after we married and then moved back out -- without Woody. And of course there was Cricket (see her story.) So the last thing we really needed was another cat. Still, whenever we found ourselves in Petco or PetSmart, we always looked. Sometimes we stroked; and held; and cuddled; but we mainly just looked. Once or twice, I'd say something like, "How about it?" if one of them seemed particularly adorable, and Bill always answered, "Come on. We have plenty." And we'd walk away empty-handed.

I have no idea what got into him this time. He said, "Sure; why not."

The cat whose chin I'd been scratching by reaching into his cage was a brown and black tabby with very soft fur. His name was Boots. Not overly original, but he was six years old so it wasn't really fair to go changing it. And he did have a very sweet purr.

Unfortunately, they didn't have all the paperwork in the store, so while they wrote "ADOPTED" in big letters across the name tag on Boots' cage, we bopped over to the SPCA office about five minutes away. Gave them the slip with Boots' name and ID number, signed countless documents promising we'd take good care of him, and paid out $20 (plus tax) adoption fee. We would have offered more as a donation, but they didn't take plastic and between us, it was all we could do to scrape up the $20. Then back to PetSmart, where we decided what the hell, and splurged on a new cat carrier (which made sense, in case we ever had to transport all four of them at the same time), collar and tag that read "Boots." I have a paranoia about unlabelled animals. Even the cat who never goes out has a tag with its name and our phone number, just in case.

And home we went with an unplanned new addition to the family.

For the first few hours we kept him in the powder room. All he wanted to do was hide; behind the toilet; next to the sink; the other side of the sink. I'd go in to him periodically to pick him up, stroke him and let him know he was home. Eventually we let him out. He found the couch in the living room and crawled under it in record time, and there he stayed.

When my younger son came home, we sprung the news on him. He rolled his eyes as only a teenager can. We went into the living room to try and drag him out to introduce him, but Boots was determined. Eventually we had to lift part of the sectional off of him to grab him. As we were rolling around on the floor trying to reach under the various parts of the couch, my son finally called in, "Wait; are you guys just messing with me?"

Damn; I wish I had thought of that.

But no, we really had a new cat.

We still couldn't coax him out by bedtime, so we decided to leave him alone; not that we had much choice. We'd shown him where the food and water was laid out in the kitchen, but figured he'd manage to find it again on his own.We thought he'd probably come out and explore when it was dark and quiet.

We didn't realize how right we were until the following morning. Boots wasn't under the living room couch or the blue couch in the guest room that he'd also found the first day. He wasn't behind the mattresses stacked against the closet. Finally I found him under my daughter's bed, which had the advantage of being much higher than the couches.

I lay on the floor murmuring and talking to him, trying to coax him to come out. The day before, we had brought him out several times and found it hilarious that the other cats didn't seem to realize he was there, but now Ollie came stalking into the room. He slinked under the bed and methodically sniffed Boots from nose to tail and back again. Boots didn't move. Finally Ollie took a step back and let out a single, judgmental "HISS!" Boots still didn't move as I shooed Ollie out. Then Woody crawled under the bed and also gave a quick "Hiss!" albeit without the careful sniff first. It translated so clearly to, "Yeah!" or "Like he said!" that I cracked up while shooing Woody out too.

I eventually fished him out and tried to soothe him, but as soon as I let him down he crawled right under the blue couch in the guest room again.

Later in the afternoon, Bill decided -- correctly, as it turned out -- that Boots was probably really hungry by now, so he took a bowl of food up to the guest room, which we'd already fitted out with a bowl of water and one of the litter boxes. Out crept Bootsie; boy was he ever hungry. He ate, drank, used the box, and submitted to a fair amount of stroking and loving, but only on his own terms.

Over the next few days he decided that his favorite hiding/sleeping/hanging out place was under our bed. When we'd come upstairs to watch TV or get ready for bed, out he'd come for his loving. Gradually he became bolder, coming downstairs to eat and use the boxes in the laundry room (where they belonged.)

Bootsie has been ours for a month now, and he's inserted himself into the household nicely. Shadow slinks away from him. Woody apparently isn't worth his trouble. One day while Boots was licking his crotch (presumably a vulnerable posture) Woody walked in. Boots calmly regarded him, then returned to his self-ministrations. He keeps his distance from Ollie, who's thrown a few paws, but there's been no more hissing. He "helps" us read the newspaper (can anyone read it without a cat sitting on just the article you were reading?) and rubs up against our legs when we come upstairs to go to bed. He hasn't yet jumped up onto the comfy white couch in the family room that bears the title of "official cat perch" for the other three, but we figure it's only a matter of time.

Copyright © 2007 Lucy Hornstein