The Importance of Spaying Ebony (and Locking Doors)

This is a story for The Meowpocalypse.  We share stories of our critters, and sleep a little better knowing that, for instance, Jude's habit of not burying his poop is his way of asserting his dominance, and not just laziness.

But this is not about Jude.  This is about Jude's predecessor, Ebony.

1994-2011

Ebony came to us a shell-shocked kitten with a kink in her tail, which I still believe was the product of it getting slammed in a door at some point.  Once out of the tiny cage Petsmart provided to the no-kill shelter she came from, she spent the first few weeks hiding under various pieces of furniture.  I'm still not sure how six-year-old me pulled it off, but with patience and coaxing I got her to trust me.  This was kind of important, because the biggest rule of having her was that she had to stay in my room at all times.  We had two other cats, and until I could tame her my parents didn't want them getting all up in her business.

A few months and yet another kitten later, October rolled around.  The people who ran the foster program told us that they didn't foster or adopt out black cats during that month because apparently people are cruel.  They said she could either stay at the shelter the entire time, or we could keep her permanently.  We kept her.  And loved her.

Even if she did wind of giving me hives

Now, we've always considered ourselves responsible pet owners.  The rest of our animals were spayed or neutered, we always kept current on their shots, and declawing was a dirty word.  But for reasons I can't quite remember, it took us awhile to get around to getting Ebony spayed.

This became a problem when she learned to open doors.

At first, it was endearing.  "Look how smart my cat is!" I told my friends.  "She can open all the doors in our house."  After that, she was no longer confined to my room, and became queen of the castle.  My dad's tomcat, Percy, would sometimes butt heads with her, but for the most part the two alpha-cats had a truce.  All was well in Southern California!  And then she went into heat for the first time.

It really didn't occur to us to be worried.  We didn't let her out, and the rest of our animals were fixed.  Aside from the annoyance of her yowls, there didn't seem to be an issue.  But remember, the doors.

All of the doors inside our home had handles, not knobs.

Kinda like this, but curlier

This included our front door.

So it came to pass that one evening, my dad took the family out to dinner.  We came home to find the front door ajar.  This was in Buena Park, which wasn't the best suburb, and my dad went on instant alert.  He made my mom and me back up, then he cautiously approached what could very well have been a robbery in progress.

Instead, an orange tabby streaked out of the house like his tail was on fire.

We recognized him as the neighborhood stray that would occasionally come and yowl at us to let Percy out, and were puzzled.  He'd never even come to the front door.  Why on earth...?

Enter Ebony, stage left.  My dad looked across the living room and spotted my cat, lying on the carpet, a very satisfied look on her face.

Shortly thereafter, Ebony had a little operation and my mom explained to me that we already had enough cats, and didn't need more kittens.  Being six, I failed to see the logic of "less kittens," but as I grew older I came to understand.

Funnily enough, Ebony became the least maternal female animal I have ever met.  As she mellowed towards humans, she became less tolerant of other animals.  When I removed her to the garage apartment I still inhabit, she was finally free of the other cats and (all but one of the) dogs, and was in heaven.  She met a kitten a couple years after that, and growled at him so hard he still looks surprised.

This.  This was the evil she felt compelled to stop.

Anyway, that's my first Ebony story.  She lived for seventeen years, so there will probably be more.