I wanted a cat. I was looking for a young adult male who was affectionate and who could be a pal to my other cat, Raoul. Mainly, though, I wanted a simple cat. After nursing two elderly cats through their final days, I now wanted a cat who was no-muss, no-fuss. In other words, I wanted a cat who did not have to come with a manual.
What I got was Farley.
When I picked him out at the animal shelter, Farley was a 10-month-old long-haired tabby. He had been adopted when he was a kitten. But he had been returned recently to the shelter because his owner was moving to some apartment building that wouldn’t allow cats.
That must be some apartment, I thought at the time, for it was hard to imagine anyone giving up Farley: He had aquamarine eyes and dark, shaggy Farrah Fawcett-style fur. He was perfect.
Or so I thought.
My friend John went with me to bring Farley home from the animal shelter. We did everything according to a holistic health and New Age cat manual; it swore that this was the only way to harmoniously introduce a new feline to the cat who is currently in sole charge of leaving bits of fur on your furniture.
I came in first and tried to act innocent-like I wasn’t about to wreak havoc in Raoul’s life. Five minutes later John rang the bell and came in, with Farley in a carrier tucked under his arm.
Per the book’s instructions, we ignored Raoul and Farley. “Indulge in a casual conversation about other matters: the weather, vacations plans, or your favorite restaurant,” the book said. So John and I did. According to the book, the next step was “Demonstrate your lack of concern by discussing the feasibility of a trip to Yugoslavia next year.”
Well, that seemed unlikely. But by that time, so did any potential cat problems. John went home; the boys and I settled into a new life together.
Three days later, Farley had a bald patch behind one ear. Had he scratched his ear to the point of pulling some of his fur out? I wondered. Had there been a territorial cat fight over the living room? With time, the bald patch grew bigger, so Farley and I visited the vet.
There, a culture was done; it consisted of swabbing the bald patch with Q-Tips. It would take two weeks for the results and until then, the vet advised, I should give Farley an antifungal bath once a week. This was said in the most offhand manner, as if giving a cat a bath didn’t require a SWAT team. Oh yes, the vet said, and it’s probably best to isolate him from Raoul.
So Farley was banished to a spare room which, I was told, should be disinfected every other day. Disinfected from what? I wanted to know. Whatever this turns out to be was the answer.
I spent a lot of time cleaning and, since Farley was lonely in his room by himself, I also spent time locked up in there with him to keep him company. From the other side of the door, Raoul cried and rattled the door knob. Somehow, this wasn’t working out exactly as I had hoped.
But in spite of the baths and the disinfection, Farley continued to lose fur: under one leg, on his tail, in front of his ears. Finally, the culture results came back: Inconclusive.
Suddenly, everyone I knew had suggestions: Add brewer’s yeast to all meals (Farley’s, not mine); go to a health food store, buy this expensive bottle of something called herbal golden seal, mix it with water for a final rinse after each bath (Farley’s, not mine); take vitamins (both of us). I did it all.
Except consider the suggestion that I return Farley to the shelter. For a moment, it was a tempting idea, I admit, but also too guilt-producing to seriously entertain. For who would ever give a second look to a scared, partially bald cat?
By now, I realized my error. There is no such thing as a no-fuss, no-muss animal companion. Not in real life. Lassie and Garfield give us warm feelings and some laughs; they don’t bother us with litter boxes or leashes, fanciful gourmet food or fur fallout. They are the ultimate user-friendly pets.
But, basically, people get close to animals because they want involvement. Even if they don’t own up to it.
Twenty years after the death of my girlhood dog, a puli named Cindy, my mother still refuses to own another pet. “I don’t want to get that involved,” she says. Right. Instead, she fusses over the cats that live on either side of her house. She makes them beds in her yard and in her house; she buys them turkey bologna at the store. And when the weather is hot, she’ll tell me, one of the cats will come into her kitchen “wanting” some frozen yogurt.
How could she tell?
“I know that look,” she says.
Of course, these two cats have adopted her place as their place-never mind that they can’t stand each other. “The result,” my mother says in a supposed complaint, “is that I spend all my time just shuffling cats in and out different doors.” But she doesn’t want to get involved.
Then there’s my friend Dean who adopted a springer spaniel named Shakti.
Dean loves affectionate animals, but Shakti won’t let anyone pick her up; hug her and she’ll give you a warning growl. “Oh well,” Dean says, “at least she’s no trouble.”
Now Shakti is a sweet dog but, over the years, on her walks, she has become something of a magnet for trouble. Namely, aggressive dogs just love to attack Shakti and bite her, proving once again that it really is a dog-eat-dog world.
Dean has spent a small fortune on vet bills and cans of pepper spray to ward off other dogs. She swears that if she ever gets wrinkles around her eyes, it will be because she had to keep such a narrow-eyed vigilance while she was walking Shakti. But at least the dog isn’t any trouble.
So, on one level at least, I now knew that I really didn’t want “a simple cat.” Which is just as well, since owning Farley was becoming very complicated.
I conferred with the animal shelter; the staff there thought that maybe the cat was having an allergic reaction to fabric softener.
OK, that’s easy, I said, I’ll wash all his towels and bedding.
No, I was told, they really need to be washed four times to remove any trace of softener. Fine, four times. The effect: With all the laundry and cleaning and struggling to get Farley bathed, my disposition was certainly losing any traces of softness.
And still clueless as to exactly what the problem was. The vet tried a new test, one that involved pressing strips of Scotch tape against Farley’s bald patches. The results of this test were also inconclusive. And Farley continued to lose more fur. He was becoming the Fuzzy-Wuzzy of felines.
“Let’s stop doing everything,” the vet said. “We’re going to have let whatever this is get worse before we can make it better”.
The idea that things could get worse than this would have sent me into a panic if I had really believed it. I didn’t- which shows just how naive a pet owner can be. And still Farley lost more fur.
Friends called for updates, saying, “You’ve had him for a month. What’s going on?” I told them: Yes, he is still isolated; Yes, he is still getting baths; No, he isn’t any better.
“Poor Farley,” everyone said. The adjective soon became part of his name.
Medical detectives sprang into action. I was asked a lot of questions about Farley’s past, none of which I could answer. Had he been hanging around a hen house? (Because he could have poultry mites.) Had he ever traveled to Arizona or New Mexico? (It might be some kind of exotic southwestern parasites.) Could he have possibly been exposed to Nova Scotia goats? (That would mean Q fever.)
My mother called with a theory. “Maybe the cat shelter has given you an old cat, not a young one,” she said.
“No, no,” I said. “Besides even old cats don’t go bald.”
“And are you sure you want to call him Farley?” she said. “Don’t you want a Spanish name to go with Raoul?”
“Mom, I’m calling him Farley.”
“Well,” she said after a pause. “Poor Farley.”
After two more weeks, the vet performed a test that involved running a toothbrush across Farley’s head. Another week went by, another bald patch developed. Farley was sick of his room; I learned this one night when I opened the door and he jumped off the highboy onto my head. I gave him his own radio; he seemed to like salsa stations. I wondered if my mother had a point about his name.
After six weeks, we still didn’t have a diagnosis but the vet suggested that Farley be released from isolation, anyway. Sprung from his room and his radio, Farley deliriously jumped around the house. Terrorized by all this exuberance, Raoul hid under the coffee table. We were now in this together-sort of.
Two days later, there was a strange spot on my arm. I made an emergency visit to my dermatologist who performed some tests; I was relieved that they didn’t involved Scotch tape or toothbrushes.
“It’s just as I thought,” the dermatologist said when he called with the results.
“Something pretty exotic, right?” I said.
“No, it’s ringworm,” he said. “Very common in stray animals, very simple to get rid of.”
At least something about Farley turned out to be simple. I got medicine, Raoul got a bath, the house got a thorough cleaning. And, after 30 days of pills, Farley started growing his fur back.
I decided, after all we’ve been through together, that I had to keep him.
Lucky Farley. Free to roam the house, he chooses to spend his time with me-usually lying on top of my computer monitor, his paws dangling over the screen. Talk about involvement. Lucky me.
