For years, one question kept nagging at me: how do homeless cats know which door they can knock on, and which there is no point in trying. My door, for instance, is hidden from the street by a tall, solid fence. The neighbours have a rickety picket fence. They come to me in an endless stream, and never even try their luck with the neighbours. And this despite the huge, scary dog Tosha running around my garden, catching every cat she comes across. Not to eat them, but to lick them clean. But she doesn’t have that written on her.
And how many times has a new cat turned up to replace one who has just gone to the rainbow. Literally falls on your head out of nowhere. You bring him into the house, and it’s as though he’s lived here for a hundred years. He knows every nook and cranny, sleeps in the departed one’s favourite spot. As though your own dear one has come back. And there is no rational explanation for it. You start believing in reincarnation and other mystical things.
In fact, it’s all much simpler. There is no mysticism, no reincarnation. What there is, is a great big cat secret.
Or rather, a secret organisation. Classified. Enormous. Well-developed. With branches in every city, suburb, summer-house settlement. Everywhere city dwellers live. Opening branches in villages hasn’t worked out yet. Because country folk and city folk have different mentalities.
This organisation is called the “Foundation for Aid to the Betrayed”. And its branches are called distribution centres for the starving and homeless.
The distribution centres are run by old cats, male or female, wise with experience, who have lived a long time and seen a great deal in their lives. They are truly selfless souls. They don’t acquire homes or humans of their own until they are very, very old. Not because they can’t. On the contrary, they could certainly pick out the very best for themselves. But because they know for certain: when you’re well-fed and warm, your sense of empathy gradually switches off.
The heads of the centres have a vast army of volunteer helpers who collect information about people and their homes, make the rounds of rubbish dumps, tell the newly abandoned and still bewildered about the foundation, offer help.
Of course, among street cats, male and female, there are those who value freedom above all else. But only for the time being. While they still have their strength. And it’s July outside, not February.
How those in need are distributed among new humans. Is there a waiting list?
Of course there is a waiting list. But they usually try to find places as quickly as possible for those in desperate need, the famished and the sick. And the children. Cat children are the foundation’s headache. They don’t know how to hide, can’t tell bad people from good, can’t find proper food for themselves, prefer unhealthy scraps from the rubbish dump to wholesome little birds and mice. And they go feral very quickly. As for the girl cats, let’s not hide it, they end up streetwalking almost at once. The number of these underage girls with broods of their own who pass through the foundation each year—you couldn’t count them!
The most effective and reliable way of placing a cat with a new family is to replace one who has gone to the rainbow. But there are subtleties here. The candidate must study all the predecessor’s habits in advance. Know exactly where that cat liked to sleep, what it liked to eat, which toys it liked to play with. In other words, learn a cover story like an experienced intelligence agent. And behave—at least at first—exactly according to that story. A physical resemblance is desirable, but not essential. People will be people. They see what they want to see, not what is actually there.
These people then tell their friends and acquaintances, or write on Facebook: you won’t believe it, but he’s the spitting image of my late Vasenka! He even waddles the same way. And sleeps in the basin in the bathroom. And drinks from my cup. True, Vasenka was black and fluffy, and this one’s a grey tabby, Vasenka’s eyes were green, and this one’s are yellow, and even then there’s only one. But in every other respect—the spitting image!
Unfortunately—or rather, fortunately—beloved cats, male and female, don’t die all that often. The “replacement” programme cannot provide for everyone in need. What is to be done?
That’s when the distribution centre calls on all its connections and starts placing cats through the “moving in” programme. There are subtleties here too. You can’t, for example, place adult animals with the same family more often than once every six months. Six months is a good interval. By then, the previous stray has had time to become one of their own, dearly loved, and the owners to pay off their debts at the veterinary clinic.
You also can’t send two adult cats to the same family at once. A whole box of kittens is fine, but not adults. Science has no explanation for this. Perhaps it’s because humans have their own counting system. One tomcat, one female cat, one box. Obviously, to humans, two cats are more than one box. Even if it contains six kittens.
It’s very important to have accurate information about a person’s income. And to understand how many cats they can support without detriment to the cats. Many people, incidentally, don’t understand this, and follow some strange principle: crowded, but no hard feelings. Or, where there’s room for seven, there’s room for an eighth. No, no. If a person accumulates more cats than their budget allows, they start cutting back on themselves. And that is very bad! It means constant stress and a reduced ability to work. Which means a drop in income. Ultimately, this can affect the standard of living of the entire cat family. Which is unacceptable!
Finding the right human is painstaking, time-consuming work. But sometimes a placement is delayed for a few more days or even weeks, waiting for suitable weather. Provided, of course, that the condition of the one in need of a home allows them to wait.
What is the most suitable weather for placing a cat through the “moving in” programme? Pouring rain, bitter cold or unbearable heat. All these natural disasters increase a homeless kitty’s chance of finding a home by exactly 300%.
Before catching the eye of his future human, the kitty must be soaked and chilled to the bone, or literally dying of the heat. So that the human realises: if they don’t save the animal from death immediately, that death will remain a heavy burden on their conscience. And for some reason humans can’t live with such a burden.
Once the human has been chosen and the moving-in date set, the head of the distribution centre gives the candidate a final briefing. It goes something like this:
Imagine an old tomcat who runs the centre and a young stray tomcat.
— Go straight along the edge of the woods, and try to find some dirty puddle on the way and bathe in it. Yes, it’s unpleasant, it goes against our code of cleanliness, but it has to be done! Then turn right-left, left-right, and you’ll see a long green fence. As a landmark—the whole fence is hung with “Beware of the dog” signs. Pay no attention. There is a dog there, but she’s old, deaf, can’t count, can’t tell her own cats from strangers…
— Then why do they keep her?
— To feed her. Humans like feeding someone. They get pleasure out of it. Anyway. Climb over the fence using the birch tree, it grows right on the corner. Then run along the house. But not to the door—to the window on the first-floor balcony. There’s an old writing desk by the window. Climb onto it and start staring intently inside. You can meow a couple of times. But very, very quietly, as though you have no strength left at all. Next, be prepared for them to shout at you, yell “get out” and even wave a hand at you. Don’t be afraid, they don’t mean it. It’s a tradition they have, these humans. First drive you away, refuse to help, then suffer pangs of conscience and repay you a hundredfold.
— Will they hit me with a broom?
— Don’t talk nonsense. Houses where they hit you with a broom are on our blacklist. Don’t go far, dart into the bushes, then come back to the desk, sit, wait, shiver, meow. After about five minutes, the humans’ hearts won’t be able to bear it, and they’ll give you a bowl of some sort of food. Try to eat it all very quickly, without chewing. As though you haven’t eaten for a week. When the bowl is empty, keep licking it.
— Why?
— So they realise you’re starving to death. They might take you into the house straight away. Or they might think it over for a couple of days. But don’t worry. Once you’ve had your first bowl of food, that’s it, consider yourself on rations. When they take you into the house, faithfully observe two commandments: don’t steal and don’t mess in the corners. Only in the special potty.
— What if the food in the bowl runs out and I’m still hungry?
— Remember, my friend, in decent homes the food in the bowls never runs out. What’s more, the day will come when your owners will start worrying that you haven’t eaten enough and coaxing you to have another little bite.
— That doesn’t happen.
— That’s exactly what happens!
— And what’s the potty for, I’m not a baby.
— Babies are precisely the ones they forgive, but not grown-ups. You’ll have to go only in the potty and nowhere else. Remember this life hack: when you climb into that tray, close your eyes and imagine it’s summer and you’re in the vegetable beds. The soil is dry and warm, digging is pure pleasure.
— I’ve remembered everything. Can I go?
— Wait. There are two more things you need to be prepared for. Sooner or later the humans will take you to the clinic.
— If I get sick?
— No, just the opposite, so you won’t get sick. They’ll start feeling you all over, looking inside your mouth, sticking a little glass rod in…
— Where?
— Where… Let that be a surprise. Then they’ll stick needles in you too. It hurts a lot. But you’ll have to put up with it if you want to stay in the house.
— Is that all?
— No. There’ll be one more ordeal. The last one. They’ll take you to the clinic again, give you an injection, and you’ll fall into a very deep sleep for a little while. It’s called anaesthesia. You’ll wake up fully and come round when you’re already back home. And only then can you consider yourself permanently registered as a resident.
— Why anaesthesia? I can sleep anyway. Without an injection.
— You see, my friend… Actually, forget it! Don’t worry about it! All of that is such a small thing, and not too high a price to pay for the chance to have a human of your own.
— Won’t the locals pick on me?
— Well, they’re all ours, more or less. They’ve all been through this distribution centre. That’s everything? Ready? Remember the address? Off you go, God be with you, the rain’s just starting.
— Thank you!. I’ll never forget you-u-u-u…
You will forget, my dear, you’ll forget everything. Us too. And the wrongs you’ve suffered. The sooner you forget, the better. Life cannot be filled with nothing but betrayal. Otherwise there is no point to it at all.
***
You may have got the impression that I made it all up or that, on the contrary, I conducted a serious journalistic investigation to declassify the secret organisation. That is not so. It was the former director of our Kratovo distribution centre—Grandpa—who told me about the secret foundation and the moving-in schemes. He retired in the autumn. And decided to live out his days with us.
