Like many of the best things I've done, I became a cat behaviorist accidentally.
In fact, I became a cat person accidentally. I grew up with dogs. The one cat I had regular contact with, growing up, was a very reserved Persian, who had zero time for my childhood shenanigans -- so, I assumed, wrongly, of course, that all cats were like her: with no time for me, so, I had no time for them.
When I was in my 30s, I wound up fostering a teeny kitten who a cat-person friend of mine rescued from a dumpster. She already had 4 cats, and this kitten needed serious care. I was petless and underemployed -- by default, with time and space -- so I took in this mewling, little unweaned mess of worms and mites and unrelenting need, with the understanding my friend and I would find her a proper home.
We did. My home. After nursing and litter-training, and a month of her suckling on the side of my hand as she fell asleep, Molly became my cat. I was done for.
My life as a cat person began.
Molly was my heart and soul. She was always sickly and a little deaf (because of her rough start), and terrible at being a "real" cat (after all, she was taught by an avowed not-cat-person). She was…quirky.
(Molly, a female tabby American shorthair cat, posing with her very stylish tinfoil hat)
She was also incredibly devoted, loving, opinionated, and perfect. And, as everyone knows, when you have one perfect cat…you obviously get another.
Paul was next. Paul was traditionally prepared for adoption and had the benefit of extra time with his mother (he was last of the litter, an all-black and shy little dude). He came home when Molly was about 5. I won't say they adored one another, but introduction was easy and they shared space well -- except when Paul would helpfully try and correct Molly's, say, less than pristine litter hygiene (I tried to teach her, I swear). She'd get insulted and a quarrel would invariably ensue. But, overall, things were aces. Molly was my cat; Paul adopted my husband as his person. We were a happy ass cat family.
(Paul, a male American shorthair/British black mix, looking concerned about something)
Molly passed away a few years ago. Paul initially mourned, but he came to enjoy being the singular and alpha cat. Paul, as good as he is at being a cat and cat stuff, is also…quirky. He's reserved to the point of near apathy, about most things. Toys have never impressed him. He's not a cuddler. He will tolerate most indignities with, at most, a sigh to let you know he isn't thrilled. And now that he has moved into his golden years, he's even more retiring.
All that was fine with my husband (who is, also, the aloof and deadpan type). But I'd had a taste of fierce cat love, and -- I fully admit -- I was jonesing.
Enter Robert.
Robert was a semi-feral street cat in Oman. He was first TNR'd (trap-neuter-released) by a friend of mine, who, after feeding him and getting him care, noticed that he had a lot more health issues and, more pointedly, was amenable to the idea of coming inside.
(Robert, a male Arabian Mau with tabby coloring, giving his best “blue steel” look)
Robert had stomatitis (not unusual for street cats), which necessitated the removal of all his teeth (cats eat fine without teeth, especially when their teeth are what is giving them pain!), as well as wounds, scars, a persistent ear infection, a UTI, all kinds of woes. She took him in as a foster, and I jumped at the chance to adopt him (especially since she would be visiting family nearby and could take him with her across the world to me). Like Molly, I knew Robert would have some long standing health issues because of his past -- and that was fine, well-trod terrain for me. I fell in love with his giant, sad goose green eyes, and it was obvious he was a lover.
Paul was 14 at this point. Senior cats are notoriously reticent to new siblings, but he was so laid-back and grew up with another cat, so I figured it'd be fine. Maybe a bit sticky at first, but fine.
Spoiler: it was not fine. Robert was everything I hoped (loving AF) and more (too smart and clever for anyone's good), with his amp turned up to eleven. Paul was either alarmed by this meteor of energy or way over it. None of the tried-and-true best practices worked to introduce them successfully.
Paul wasn't curious enough to come smell at the door of our room/bathroom (Robert's home base) and wouldn't eat (even tuna! Honest and true TUNA) if he could smell Robert. And screw me for trying scent-swapping: Paul avoided anything I rubbed on Robert like it was a cursed object, while Robert would gleefully swat at anything remotely Paulish.
Robert, though half Paul's size, would laugh at any configuration of gates, screens, and barriers set up between him and Paul/rest of house, squeezing through impossibly small gaps (cats are liquids) or ramming them down with the passion of a berserker. Then, he would charge Paul. Charge.
And when we did get them near enough to smell one another, we expected hissing -- totally normal. No, Robert would scream. Scream. Like a B level actor in a 50s monster movie. Blood-curdling. Which, of course, was unnerving to us, but sent Paul into abject terror.
So, we gave it time, slowed down. Way down. But nothing worked. We couldn't get these two near enough to get accustomed to one another without serious drama, and, without that, well…there'd never be peace in the valley.
So, I researched.
"What happens when introductions go wrong?"
"My cats won't do what they're supposed to do!"
and, in my darker moments, "What if my cats never get along?"
The answers were…not there. Every source insisted that the standard intro procedure would work, and if it didn't, it was human error. Or, unthinkably, that one cat would have to be rehomed.
So, I went deeper. I started reading veterinary behavior books, talking to vets and behaviorists, and experimenting. This led to classes, volunteering at local animal shelters, and, now, this: The Clowder Room, where All Cats Are Beautiful -- including…no, especially -- the challenging ones. The stubborn ones. The quirky ones. The ones that won't do what they are "supposed" to do.
In the end, after a lot of time and failures, Robert and Paul are co-existing. Some days, I'd venture they don't even dislike one another. There is peace in the valley, for the most part. We're a happy cat family again.
I'm still learning. I'm still working towards credentialing. But I want to share my experiences of what can work for your cats when everything else has failed.
I can't address every issue or every cat, and I won't even try. Twice a month, however, I will go deep into the most common issues, though, with as much honesty and expertise as I can.
You can write in to request a topic, or, if you are interested, I'm available to do meetings over Zoom to discuss your specific cat situations. I don't charge for these meetings (30 minutes each, an initial and follow up) because I'm still a student, but I can only do one set of meetings per month. Send me an email if you are interested.
Note: I'm not a medical professional. As always, you know your cat best. Follow your common sense and consult with your veterinarian. If you need low-cost veterinary services, the Humane Society has some options, but you can always call 211 for your area (in the US) to find out about clinics near you.