Think you can’t help that stray cat you’ve been seeing? Read this wonderful tail (oops!) tale.

The Strange and Fantastic Saga of Eleanor, A Stray Cat;
or, The Story of a Novice Cat Rescuer
by Virginia Kallianes

The first time I saw the small yellow cat he was sitting on the wall along the park across the street from my building, waiting for the busy night traffic to slow down. I wondered if he “belonged” to one of the buildings, or was he a domestic cat abandoned in the park? One of the doormen on the block told me that he’d seen this cat lately. I decided to approach him and put food under a tree. He was definitely interested in the food, but would not let me near.

Realizing that he was a stray, I began putting out food daily and named him Chatsworth. Little did I know this cat would affect my life so dramatically for the next four months!

By now, Chatsworth was growing on me. He was really cute, with beautiful markings—grey “blotches” on yellow fur with golden stripes. Finally, after getting lots of advice about catching a stray cat from “cat people” including Vivien of Just Strays, who is also a work colleague, I obtained a humane trap and tried my hand at luring Chatsworth into the trap. My efforts were a dismal failure. I was dealing with a cautious, and very smart cat!

The doormen on the block—my “informants”—kept me apprised of his comings and goings, since I was home during the day only on weekends.

Time marched on, my trapping efforts unsuccessful. One day in November I followed Chatsworth into an ally, trying to lure him with sardines. Since he was on a wall it was the first time I caught sight of his belly and was shocked to see that “he” appeared to be nursing! It was immediately apparent-even to a cat novice like me-that “HE” was a “SHE”! I could not trap a mother cat if she had kittens somewhere. I had to stop and reassess my plan. I asked the doormen and supers on the block to call me immediately if they saw kittens: soon they all had my home telephone number! Hmmm……. I begged the reluctant supers to let me into alleys to look for kittens.

Meanwhile, I had to come up with a new name suitable for this feisty little street cat. I decided to name her Eleanor after Eleanor Roosevelt, one of my heroes, who was pretty feisty herself.
I stopped trying to trap, but kept feeding at the same location. I despaired of ever finding the kittens and worried that the weather was getting colder and wetter, making feeding more difficult. Once my “informant” said he saw Eleanor come from the park four times with mice—could she be feeding kittens? My head was swirling: If I trapped Eleanor, would the kittens die? Would someone find them? When had they even been born? Were they old enough to survive on their own? There was a possibility that no kittens had been born, that they had died, or that they were old enough and already off on their own. This was all too much for me¾I was tormented and having nightmares.

Finally, around the new year, one of the supers told me that he thought someone in a nearby building had recently found kittens, but he didn’t really know much about it. He claimed that they had been taken to the shelter. I was not totally convinced and wondered if he just said that to stop my incessant questions. But, it was January, and it was getting colder, and all I needed was a blizzard to totally throw off the possibility of trapping.

Then, one day, I saw Eleanor at the rear of my building, eating out of a torn trash bag. She looked up at me, her little pink nose red with pasta sauce. My heart nearly breaking, I knew at that moment that I had to try again to trap her and just pray that, if there were kittens, they had been found. I also put up signs all over the neighborhood asking people to notify me if they found any kittens, but I never saw or heard about any.

I intensified trapping efforts. I began to dream of sardines, shrimp, tuna, none of which, by the way, lured her into the trap. During the workweek, I took a big chance: I left the trap—not “rigged”—open at both ends, with food in it, covered, chained and locked to a post. It wasn’t the greatest game plan, but what could I do? Eventually she did go into the unset trap and eat the food. But, as I said, she was a very smart cat¾she knew when the trap was set. I began to wonder if she had been trapped before.

One Sunday, as usual, I sat in the foyer keeping warm in between checking the trap. Finally, after 1 1/2 hours, I thought, “okay, she’s not coming today. I’m just going to wait 10 more minutes then I’m going inside.” Ten minutes went by. I went to unset the trap. From the top of the stairs I noticed that something looked different. I looked closer. The trap door was closed! I stood in shock for a few moments, my heart pounding. Had Eleanor been trapped? The moment had finally come, and I was paralyzed. Hoping I hadn’t trapped some other wild animal, I crept closer. I was having trouble breathing, as I looked and saw Eleanor’s little face peering out at me. She didn’t make a sound. Success, after all this time! Relief flooded over me¾I had her. Then, cold chills¾what do I do now? I tried to speak calmly to her, though my voice was shaking. I covered the trap and took her inside, closing her in a separate room. Now what? I called Vivien, of course! After four months of suspense, she had to be the first to know!

It being Sunday, my vet was not available. I had to get Eleanor somewhere immediately. I called and found a vet who would see her that day. I left her for a few days for the basic exam, blood tests, and general observations. I needed to know that it was safe to expose my two cats to her. I had originally meant to find an adoptive home for Eleanor, but after all this I had fallen in love with her, and she seemed too feral to easily find her a home. I tried to send good vibes to her at the vet’s.

Meanwhile, I began to get bad vibes—from the vet. I couldn’t reach him on the phone and he didn’t return my calls. He seemed caring, but disorganized. Finally, he called—the test results were negative. I rushed to pick up Eleanor. The vet came into the waiting room and informed me that while he was transferring her into the carrier, she escaped and “jumped into the ceiling.” “What?” I stammered. “Yes,” he said, “it’s amazing. She jumped straight from the floor into a space where some ceiling tiles are missing. Don’t worry. I’ll get her out. Go home, I’ll call you.”
I was stunned and went home to cry, feeling powerless. I was convinced that Eleanor would get hurt somewhere where she could not be reached, or would find some way out of the building from the ceiling and escape for good. I called the vet constantly to find out if there had been progress in catching Eleanor. Soon the vet tired of my calls and stopped answering the phone. I went to his office several times and was shown that they had removed most of the ceiling, trying to isolate her in a manageable area where they were feeding her. They cut a hole in the wall, but she went back into the ceiling. I offered to bring a trap, but the vet claimed he had set one.

I was despondent—what should I be doing? After two sleepless nights, Eleanor had still not been caught, and I went to work on Monday morning. Though embarrassed, I told Vivien what had happened. She insisted that we leave work that very moment. Luckily, I was able to get a trap on short notice and we hurried across town to the vet’s. The office was locked. We could see through the glass door that the office was in shambles, and there was no answer to our buzzing or telephone calls. What to do? We kept leaning on the buzzer and calling from the corner phone leaving messages.

Finally, the disheveled vet emerged from an inner doorway, looking dazed and confused. He would not let me in, and said because of my cat his business was ruined, his office in disarray. He would only allow Vivien in when she said she was an “animal rescue expert”. He let her set a trap in the ceiling, where she saw Eleanor’s eyes gleaming out of the dark recesses of the corner.
That night Eleanor was caught. I immediately went to retrieve her from that awful place, feeling guilty that I had put her through so much. I took her home, but had to get her to a competent vet for repeat blood tests and to be spayed and vaccinated. Two weeks later, with much trauma to me and Eleanor, I got her into a carrier, but not until after she literally climbed up the window.
All went well this time, and Eleanor went home with me at long last to her own room. She spent two months behind a futon. I spent the two months lying on the floor, the only way I could see her under the chair. She did have a healthy appetite and came out to eat the food I put near the futon. Her first photo was a shadowy sillouhette behind the chair!

As I write this, Eleanor’s one-year anniversary with me has just passed. Adjustment to my other cats, Zoe and Scalawag (from Just Strays!), went slowly. Zoe, my 8-year-old dominant female, intimidates Eleanor, but tolerates her. Eleanor is madly in love with my 7 1/2-year-old little Scalawag, and with good reason! She talks to him, rubs against him, follows him around. Unfortunately, he is playing “hard to get.” But she persists.
Today, she is renamed Lynx—she wanted a cat name, not a human name—but I have taken to calling her “The Butterball,” which tells you that, if nothing else, she is comfortable dozing on the sofa, swatting toys down the hall, and getting two square meals—and too many treats—each day. As I write this, she is across the room, curled on the sofa with Scalawag. I wonder whether she will ever let me touch her. Even if she never does, my beautiful Lynx will never eat out of the trash again.