Shell of The Animal Spirit asks that credit be given to the source of
The Cat Lady story. This is where the story is located:
http://www.theanimalspirit.com/catlady.html.
She encourages everyone to pass the story along, but to please not
alter the text and to include the source.
Thanks!
Shell
FeralPlace@aol.com

The Animal Spirit
http://www.theanimalspirit.com

”The Cat Lady" (lengthy but well worth the read)

[This story is not only for "cat-lovers." It's the story of how one
person can make a difference, no matter how small the deed. I hope it
inspires you to do something -- anything -- to help better the world
for both humans & nonhumans.]

The block I grew up on in New York consisted of several houses, a
small animal shelter, a colony of stray and feral cats, and an
official "cat lady." Looking back, I realize my fate was sealed.

I was 9-years old when I first noticed the cat lady. Every evening,
she would push a creaky, old wagon filled with cans of cat food, a
jug of water, and paper plates. One by one, cats would appear and
begin to follow her. Faces slowly forming behind glowing eyes, they'd
crawl out from under cars and sneak through backyards, following the
wagon and its owner.

At the end of the block, in front of the small animal shelter, the
parade of cats led by the cat lady would come to a stop. Peering from
my stoop, I watched as each cat was presented with a plate of food.
Patiently, the cat lady would wait as the cats licked their plates
clean. When they were finished, she would pick up the plates, pour
the jug of water over the street to wash away food remnants, and
disappear around the corner with her old, creaky wagon. On cue, the
cats would disappear too.

My friends thought the cat lady was weird; I wanted to meet her.

One evening, I tried to join the parade, but I was quickly ordered to
go away. Stubbornly, I tried again and again, but the response was
always the same.

A few days later, I had an idea. I took a few cans of my cat's food
and went outside to wait. That evening, I not only followed the cat
lady, but I offered her the cans of food. She smiled. I was finally
allowed to join her and the cats as they marched down the block.

For several weeks, I assisted with the evening ritual. I'd help scoop
cat food into plates and clean up when the cats finished eating. The
cat lady and I never really spoke; she would grunt orders at me and
I'd obediently follow.

My mother was very happy to see me keeping out of trouble; armed with
a few cans of cat food, she'd eagerly scoot me out the door after
dinner to wait for the cat lady. Times were different then, and a
child could sit on her front stoop without fear of danger. I thought
the world was safe and perfect.

Eventually, the cat lady and I graduated from grunts and nods to
complete sentences. She explained that all the cats were "fixed" and
that they each had a name and history. After a while, I no longer
viewed them as just a group of cats. They were individual, wonderful
creatures who I looked forward to seeing. My family and friends
endured my endless cat stories. My allowance money went toward cat
food instead of records or new earrings. While the kids were sitting
on their porches listening to music, I was picking up paper plates on
the corner.

My friends thought I was crazy; I didn't care.

I began asking the cat lady questions about the shelter that stood on
the corner. I thought the shelter was similar to an orphanage for
children and homeless animals would live there until a family adopted
them. I found out I was wrong. The cat lady told me that animals who
were not adopted from the shelter were killed.

I ran home and explained to my mother that all the animals in the
shelter would be killed and we had to immediately adopt them. To my
surprise, she replied, "No."

The cats and dogs I grew up with were loved and pampered. They had
their own Christmas stockings and slept on my bed. To think there
were similar creatures killed right down the block because no one
wanted them was too much for me to bear.

I was angry with the cat lady for telling me animals were killed. I
was angry at the shelter for killing animals. I was angry with my
mother for not adopting them all. And I was angry with my friends for
not understanding why I was angry. My perfect world had been
shattered. It wasn't all happy endings and I wanted no part of it.

I began to spend all of my spare time hidden in my room. I'd peek out
the window when I heard the creaky, old wagon pass by, but I never
followed.

After about two weeks of hiding, the cat lady knocked on my front
door. I heard my mother explain that she didn't know what happened,
but she thought I was upset because she wouldn't adopt all the
animals from the shelter. The cat lady asked to speak with me, and I
reluctantly walked down the hallway toward her.

What she said to me at that moment molded me into the person I have
become. She told me that while it was sad all animals did not have a
happy ending, hiding in my house wouldn't help. And then she placed
her hand on my shoulder and said, "You are special because you care.
You can't give up."

I stepped out of my house and joined the parade of cats, never to
falter again.

Together, the cat lady and I nursed orphaned babies, trapped cats who
needed to be "fixed," and tended to the sick. We relished our success
stories and mourned those we lost.

Several years later, I moved away from New York. The night before I
left, the cat lady hugged me good-bye and told me again, "Don't give
up." And I haven't.

I continue to feed, spay/neuter and adopt feral and stray cats. I
sponsor shelter animals. I'm vegan. When I'm tired and my heart
breaks because of the atrocities inflicted upon animals, I remember
the cat lady's words. When I feel as if my small contribution can't
possibly make a difference, I remember the face of each cat I met on
that New York street so long ago; their tails held high in the air as
they proudly marched to the end of the block. For those cats, and for
myself, one person made all the difference in the world. The small
contribution of an ordinary woman with long, tangled hair and a
creaky, old wagon still reverberates within me after decades.

I visited my childhood neighborhood recently; the shelter is now a
supermarket and the creaky, old wagon is a thing of the past. But the
lessons I learned on that block have stayed with me -- lessons of
compassion, acceptance, solidarity, and perseverance. And when the
neighborhood children call me "cat lady," I can't help but smile.

Posted on SHARE Yahoo group Oct 22, 2003