Trying to rescue grey streak, the vagabond cat
He’s called The Grey streak.
That’s all I saw of him for the first hour. A grey streak tearing across my back yard in the middle of the night, from the shelter to the side fence.
He was a grey streak running the length of the fence as I slowly followed behind, in old runners so big I could step into them like sandals. Snow soaked the bottom of my pajamas.
It was negative-8 outside, dropping to negative-12 overnight (Celsius).
Cats, like people, can barely survive below freezing. If left outside, the Grey Streak would probably freeze to death overnight.
A few centimeters of snow covered an ice path to the back gate, solid and slippery after the previous melt. He scampered along that path, and under a parked truck in the back alley.
The Grey Streak’s little meows were barely audible. At least I could hear him. I walked out the back gate, and squatted by the front wheel of the white, rusted RAM.
I trilled softly between calling “hey kitty”.
Eventually a shadow, visible under the car. I extended my hand.
Bloody hell it was cold.
“Hey kitty. Tss tss tss”
More meowing. His nose brushed my fingertips in a timid sniff.
I promised The Grey Streak that if he just came a little closer, I wouldn’t turn him into a pair of gloves.
“Hey little guy”
A headbutt! A little scratch behind the ear! We’re friends!
Then he ran away.
Bollocks.
For over an hour I tailed Grey streak through the alleys behind my house.
Every time he ran off, he’d stop a little closer. Soon he was only running a few feet ahead before turning to watch this weird human behind him, murmuring “hey kitty” into air so dry it barely carried sound.
With persistent coaxing, Grey Streak was soon rubbing my legs and getting lots of head scratches. Still skittish, he stood a little ahead of me, looking up and, most importantly, not running away.
Maybe he wanted me to follow him home. I started walking East. Grey Streak ran excited as a puppy in front of me, looking back every few seconds. We passed one block. We passed another block.
I’ve always had this dream of finding and returning someone’s lost pet. Every time I see a lost pet poster I keep an eye out.
“This is the night” I thought. After years of dreaming.
I’d follow Grey Streak for a few blocks. He’d walk up to a big wooden front door, on a fancy but tasteful house. I’d knock. A woman would answer, and find her beautiful grey cat sitting on the porch beside my ankle. “Storm!” she’d yell, picking him up in a grandmother-style hug.
We kept walking through the alley. I smiled.
“What is it honey?” a man would ask, coming to the front door. He’d see the cat, and without speaking wrap his arms around his wife and Grey Streak. Tears would be shed.
Laughing and crying at the same time, they’d tell me they named him storm because he’s grey all over, and fluffy as a rain cloud. “We were so worried”, they’d say. “Where did you find him?” We’d shake our heads about the weather before I walked off into the night, like The Littlest Hobo.
It would be the greatest moment ever. But that’s not what happened.
By the third block my feet were frozen. Grey Streak put his front paws up on my waist, asking to be picked up. His little paws were frozen too. After a minute or two he jumped down and kept walking.
By block four I turned around. Grey streak jumped in front of me, and ran just as excitedly back to the alley behind my place. I started to doubt his sense of direction.
No problem. He can camp out at my place until we find home. It’ll be like a sleepover.
I walked a meter towards my house from the alley. Stopped. Grey streak hesitated, then slowly followed. I gave him a good head rub. More gentle trilling.
Another meter. A little more waiting. More petting.
We moved in segments of a meter or two until we made it to my back door. I stepped over the threshold.
Grey streak sat outside the back door, staring up with his huge green eyes, and meowed.
I stepped out, gave him a little head rub, then walked back inside.
“It’s warm in here.” I promised. I felt like a 50-year old unshaven man in a windowless van, promising candy if this little guy would just step inside.
“Meooow”.
We stared at each other. I could feel the wet ends of my pajamas, partially frozen, against my feet.
“Meoooow”.
In a few minutes I started to shut the door. Grey Streak stood up.
One deliberate, nervous paw at a time, he came inside. He looked around, sniffing everything in the kitchen.
I put down a plate full of soft food.
Grey Streak didn’t eat. Oh no.
He sucked and chewed faster than a hummingbird’s wings. You could hear him chewing from the other side of the house.
Bits of soft food spilled around the saucer like the rings of Saturn. The Grey Streak licked the plate clean, then quickly hoovered up the surrounding rings.
I waited a minute to let him digest, then filled the plate again.
More furious chewing. More rings of cat food. More hoovering.
I pet him along his bony spine, hidden under his fluffiness. You can never tell how much weight a cat has on them until you pet them.
Grey Streak polished off three tins of soft food. There were specs of cat food all over the floor.
It was 11pm. Grey streak pawed at the back door.
Outside again, he began furiously meowing.
Again, I coaxed him back inside.
Again he scarfed a pile of soft food, before realizing he was in a stranger’s house.
Again, panicking, he pawed at the back door.
Out. Meowing. In. Food. Pawing at the door. Out. Meowing. In. Food. Pawing at the door.
This ritual continued until 5 in the flippin morning. Grey Streak ran out one last time. I didn’t hear him meow again, and fell asleep.
Two hours later my alarm went off. I looked outside. Between 5am and 7am, we’d had over a foot of snow. Grey Streak was nowhere to be found.
Maybe he finally made it home.
I worked from home, just in case. To make Grey Streak’s life easy, I shoveled a bunch of paths around my house, and swept the back deck. About 10am I opened the back door and called. “Kitttyyyyyyy”.
A familiar meow from a hole in the neighbor’s garage wall. The Grey Streak flew over the neighbor’s fence, slid under the gate, and ran into my house.
For two days he followed me around, sleeping under my chair while I worked. He even got along with the grumpy old resident cat.
He’d go outside for a few minutes, then come back inside. I always opened the door when he wanted out. He was my guest, not a prisoner.
In the kitchen, Grey Streak would hang onto a drawer handle with one paw, and lean his back against the cupboards, standing on two legs, looking at you.
He rarely held still for a photo. As soon as he saw you looking at him, he’d run up for a cuddle.
Grey Streak only came into the bedroom when he thought I wasn’t looking. He’d hide in the corner of my wardrobe, falling asleep on a pile of jackets.
He knew to stay off the kitchen bench.
I posted ads on Kijiji and Petlynx. Surely someone was looking for him, beside themself with worry.
Three days went by.
A few people asked if he had a white patch anywhere. “He’s all grey, sorry”.
One person said his name was Rambo, and he’d come home. “I don’t think this is Rambo, since he’s still here”
“Are you sure he’s male?” “Yes”
“Does he have a tattoo?” “Not that I can see sorry.”
Lots of people looking for cats. Just not The Grey Streak.
On Saturday, I popped into Calgary North Vet Clinic and asked if they could scan Grey Streak for a microchip. They kept him, promising they have a better chance of finding his owner. It made sense. He’s in expert hands.
That evening I mopped his little paw prints off my kitchen floor, cleaned the litter, and sadly thought how lucky I was not to be woken up by a hungry kitty at 5am.
The Grey Streak is still at Calgary North, and will be taken to The Humane Society today. If no one claims him in a week, he’ll be put up for adoption.
I call every day to make sure he’s OK. Maybe he can stay at my place, I suggest, instead of a holding cage. No one likes being in a cage.
They assure me he’s better-off this way.
Yesterday
The Grey Streak was transferred to the Humane Society on Monday.
I called them Monday afternoon. The girl I spoke to mentioned a tattoo so faded they couldn’t make out the ID.
A tattoo! Someone had asked about a tattoo in the lost pet ad.
Then this happened.
Mikhaela is going into the Humane Society today to see if The Grey Streak is her cat.
I may not have walked him home, presenting him to a loving family in a giant yet tasteful house, but there is hope.
