The arrival of a straggly stray kitten into Karen Ho’s life has brought welcome ‘noise’ to her otherwise peaceful existence.
MY sedate sanctuary has not been quite the same since I met him. Please believe me when I say that I am not in the habit of picking up strangers and taking them home. But one fateful evening, I crossed that boundary.
Arms weighed down with grocery bags, I headed for the lift lobby of my condominium block and there he was. My disbelieving eyes did a double take at the rare sight — the adorable sitting near the lift, totally oblivious to my presence. He didn’t even glance at me when I offered a hello and asked what he was doing there. Hmm, I like the silent confident types.
It brought to mind the time I rescued a mewing cat that was stuck on the little roof that projects over the lift area on each floor. Hoping that the offer of food and friendship would help comfort the stressed creature, I took it home only to discover that it would not stop mewing. It literally made noise every few seconds — like hiccups — even when it sat calmly, making me wonder if it was still emotionally distressed or if it just had a kind of Tourette’s Syndrome. In the end, I released it back to the wild in hopes that once back in its familiar environment, the incessant mewing would stop.
This latest four-legged find was the complete opposite. Unusually quiet and looking perfectly normal, the kitten never let out a squeak, not even to ask for food or to call out for his mother. A quick check around the immediate vicinity suggested that he was all alone, triggering my instincts to take him home to offer him food. The straggly stray shamelessly made himself at home, leaping all over my living room and bravely exploring nooks and crannies.
FEARLESS FURBALL
During childhood, I had adopted three strays, each one during a different stage of my youth. When I was in primary school, there was the one who gave birth, only to have none of her kittens survive, causing a young girl to bawl in her room. When I hit secondary school, an exotic-looking cream-coloured cat found its way to my home, until he had to be re-homed when I moved overseas. And later in my teens, a gorgeous long-haired grey tabby with saintly patience brought me the joy of feline friendship again.
As an only child, each played its part as my playmate, confidant and best friend.
Back to 2016: My temporary guest soon became a permanent resident. He’s turned out to be a fearless furball, the type that climbs onto your head, pounces on his own reflection in the mirror, unafraid of picking a fight with a hairdryer and unflinching when water is poured over him during bath time. In the days, weeks and months to come, I would grow accustomed to the noises made by my new and only flatmate, whom I named Milo. There would be the rattling of a plastic bottle and measuring tape that he loved toying with, the little tinkles from his collar whenever he scratched an ear, and the soft thuds whenever he burst into energetic sprints and accidentally ran into the glass sliding door.
On rare occasions, some sounds caused me momentary concern.
One early morning before dawn descended, I recall waking from slumber to hear voices coming from my living room. Barely lucid, I froze for a few seconds before coherence kicked in and I summoned my legs to investigate my suspicions.
Sure enough, the television was on, tuned to a morning show, though I don’t think the cat wanted to catch the guest interview. I deduced that he had simply jumped onto the remote control, a stunt I had witnessed before.
While Milo tends to be relatively silent, his owner, however, has become more vocal.
“Oww!!” or “Stop that!” would be heard regularly when he entered the phase of digging his sharp claws or growing teeth into my skin that left me looking as if I had fought with a razor blade. Exasperated, I searched online for answers — which prompted me to clip his claws and play with him during restless moments to help release his natural aggression and playful energy. It worked, because the scars on my arms and legs have faded and lessened, and cries of pain have become a rarity.
Peace reigns once more in my sanctuary — with different types of “sounds”: The sound of Milo’s silence outside my bedroom every morning as he waits patiently for any sign of movement behind the door, without making any wailing demands for breakfast; the hush of his obedience as he is drenched, shampooed, and then subjected to the hairdryer; and best of all, his contentment as he nestles comfortably and purrs softly on my lap.