I grew up by the beach in a San Diego suburb. Living by the beach there was always quite a collection of stray and feral cats. We even had our own “cat lady.”I was nine 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 down the street behind my house. One by one, cats would 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 an abandoned field, the parade of cats led by the cat lady would come to a stop. Peering from our back door, 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 into some bowls, 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 cats’ 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 onto 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.
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 individuals, wonderful creatures who I looked forward to seeing. My allowance money went toward cat food. While other kids were playing ball or watching television, I was picking up paper plates in an abandoned field.
My friends thought I was crazy. I didn’t care.
I began asking the cat lady questions about our local animal shelter. 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.
The cats and dogs in my family were loved and pampered. They had their own Christmas stockings and slept on my bed. To think there were similar creatures killed right in my own community because no one wanted them was too much for me to bear.
I was angry at the cat lady for telling me animals were killed. I was angry at the shelter for killing animals. 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 my spare time hidden in my room. I’d peek out the window when I heard the creaky old wagon pass by but I didn’t follow.
After about two weeks of hiding, the cat lady knocked on my front door. I heard the housekeeper explain that she didn’t know what had happened but it had something to do with animals being killed at the shelter. The cat lady asked to speak with me, and I reluctantly walked downstairs toward her.
What she said to me at that moment helped mold me into the person I have become. She told me that while it was sad that 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. 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 went away to college. The night before I left, the cat lady hugged me good-bye and told me again, “Don’t ever give up.” And I haven’t.
When I am 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 in that abandoned field so long ago, their tails held high in the air as they proudly marched behind us. 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 with me after decades.
You are also that one person that can make a difference. Spring A Pet runs through April 10. You make a difference by donating each time you shop. You help homeless animals to find a better life; to find a loving home; to have a happily ever after.
Thank you for your very successful efforts so far. Don’t ever give up.