She was a beautiful Chocolate-Lynx-point, one-year-old Himalayan cat, with long, creamy-silk hair, perfect qualifications for becoming a Grand Champion show cat. That is what she was bred to be; and she would have won hands-down, except for one thing....
My cat-breeder friend called me up and asked me if I would come and help her for a day. "Watch the door when you open it," she cautioned me on the phone. As I walked into the room I was stampeded by a herd of cats. Shuffling my feet along so as not to step on any of the fluff-balls that greeted me, I proceeded into the next room. A dozen or so little pansy-faced Himalayan kittens followed me, climbing on my feet, crawling up my legs, all vying for my attention. And the adult cats, too, were enthusiastically friendly. It was as if I were some royal visitor and they were the welcoming committee.
I looked around the room, intrigued by all the friendly felines, and that is when I spotted her. She was sitting a-top a feed container. As I approached her, I could hear a soft purring sound. Yawning, she looked up at me, her sky-blue eyes like marbles. Not knowing anything about her at the time, I stroked her head and said, "Oh, hello, you gorgeous kitty. What's your name?" And that is when I was told that her name was Helen-Keller.
"That's a strange name for a cat," I replied. "The Helen-Keller I know of was blind."
"Exactly," said my friend. "And that is why I named her that. She is blind."
All during my stay that day, as I brushed, bathed, and weighed cats and kittens, I couldn't get my mind off this one particular kitty. How was she able to survive in this house full of cats? Yet she seemed calm and confident. In fact, she appeared perfectly happy. The other cats didn't seem to bother her in the least.
I peppered my friend with questions. Why was she blind? What would become of her?
She was born with PRA, (Progressive Retinal Atrophy) : blindness. No use as a show cat, no use as a breeder, she would have to be put down. Unless—
Immediately I stopped asking questions about Helen-Keller. Something was brewing in the head of my friend, and I had a feeling I knew what it was. And then one day I got a phone call--
No! I did not want—nor need—another cat. I already had three cats, all cast-offs.
A year previous to this we had said goodbye to our two elderly cats, sixteen-year-old Siamese, Susu, and seventeen-year-old, Honey, a Himalayan. At that time we did not feel ready to "retire" from having pets. We searched for a replacement for them. We weren't looking for a cute, cuddly kitten. We had in mind a "throw-away" cat, one that no one wanted. An ad in the paper led us to the home of an elderly cat-breeder who was trying to downsize her cat population. What we came back with was not one, but two cats. A tortoise-shell Himalayan had given birth to two kittens, one with Seal-point markings, and the other a ginger. The breeder knew she could find a home for the Seal-point kitten, but not for her brother, the ginger. So we ended up with the mother and her three-week-old "ginger" son, whom we named Queenie and Ernie.
Just a few months after we had adopted Queenie and Ernie, a friend phoned up in desperation. He had a cat that he just HAD to find a home for—or it would have to be destroyed. We went over to his house to pick up this unwanted cat, thinking that maybe we could find a home for it. However, one look at the beautiful cream-point Himalayan cat in the carrier was all it took for me to decide that "Casper" had found a home—ours.
So taking on another cat, a blind one, at that, was out of the question....
The memory of this strikingly beautiful—but blind—kitty, sitting on top of the food container, lingered in my mind for the longest time. But eventually life blotted out all thoughts of the cat—until that day I got the phone call—
The night before Helen-Keller came, I had visions of carrying little blind kitty around in a basket the rest of her life, taking her with me wherever I went, to protect her from all the dangers my imagination was conjuring up… I was having second thoughts. But what if I didn't take her? What was the alternative? A cat breeder cannot have a handicapped cat… First off, I decided during my night time reveries, her name would have to be changed. Helen-Keller was too awkward a name for such a small cat. And "Helen" was out of the question. We did not need two Helens in the house… So Helen Keller became "Baby."
I will never forget that first day "Baby" joined our family. My illusions of toting this helpless, blind cat around in a basket flew out the window the minute she set foot in the house.
Cautiously I set her down, keeping an eye on Queenie, Ernie, and Casper. Duffy, the dog, had already met Baby during our trip home. She thought the cat was just fine, but then, Duffy accepted every living creature as being just fine.
Baby began exploring. With me watching her like a hawk, the cat explored every inch of the house. She walked around, rather than bumping into, furniture. I was amazed. It was as if she had some sort of built-in radar. And it was then that I noticed her exceptionally long whiskers. "Pussy-footing" her way into the living room, she climbed up onto the sofa and other furniture, then cautiously climbed down again. She sniffed her way down the hall until she came to the bathroom, where the kitty litter box was. Gingerly she stepped into it, used it, covered her business, and more confidently, stepped out again, resuming her inspection of her new surroundings.
Now where was her food? Her rounds weren't complete without knowing where her food was. Seeing her sniffing around, I steered her in the direction of where I had put down some of her familiar food, in a special place where the other cats wouldn't bother her. She began eating. Since she would have to share a water dish with the other cats and the dog, I showed her where that was. One showing was all she needed. As for the other cats, they curiously eyed her from a distance, and then went back to their sleeping. "Baby" was home to stay.
And how was life with Baby from then on? Fine! And fun. During the five years that Baby shared our home, from 1997 to 2002, I learned a lot about how to care for a handicapped pet.
Baby seemed to come with a hidden set of rules, which I had to learn as I went along:
Rule 1: Beware of sudden noises—or sudden changes.
Baby was not afraid of daily noises, such as the vacuum cleaner, the hum of the refrigerator, or washer and dryer. At the time we took Baby, we were caring for an elderly lady, Mary, who was on oxygen. The oxygen tank made a loud purring noise, and gave off quite a lot of heat. Baby was drawn to that tank and spent hours curled up beside it. I often wondered if she thought it was her mother.
But one day, shortly after Baby came to live with us, the electricity went off. Suddenly everything was deadly quiet. The refrigerator stopped. The dryer stopped. And most importantly, the oxygen tank stopped. Just then—the dog, sleeping next to Baby, sneezed. This sent Baby into a frenzy. She began hopping around like a Mexican jumping bean. I went to pick her up and she hissed at me, scratching to try to get away. What was going on? In a panic, after several attempts to catch her and calm her, I phoned my breeder friend. She came over immediately, bringing a cat carrier with her. At first she suggested that she take Baby back to her place, but after discussing it, we decided it would be best to leave her where she was, but put her in the cat carrier, leaving the door open. We put in a familiar blanket and left her. Perhaps in the security of some restricted place she would calm down. After about an hour Baby began to settle down. Timorously, she came out of the carrier and cautiously began exploring her surrounding. But every time I went near her, she hissed.
"Just leave her alone," advised my friend by phone. "Let her take her own time to get over her fright."
It took about a week for her to again trust me. Did she think it was MY fault this happened? I guess so. After all, wasn't I her new mama? That was the last time she reacted so violently to sudden quietness, or change in noise patterns. But often she did show fright if there was noise in the street, like tree cutters or street cleaners. She needed assurance during those times that I was there and would protect her.
Rule 2: Give me time to adjust if you change the furniture around. Help me in finding familiar things. Turn the TV on. That helps me get my bearings.
I am the kind of person who would be content to leave the furniture in the same place forever, but my husband likes change. He often sets about rearranging the room. The first time he did this after Baby came to live with us, it was rather pathetic to watch the poor little cat walking around the room as if in a daze. Her head in the air, she sniffed her way along, bumping into articles that were not there an hour or so before. I followed her, lifting her onto the sofa and chairs, and helping her get down again. Then I showed her where the TV was. It was after the first experience that we learned to put the TV on while she adjusted to the new arrangement. After a few times of rearranging, seeing Baby's reaction, my husband was more willing to leave things as they were.
Go to Part II