Mamacita Rosarita tells her story

I have dim memories of being touched gently by human hands, and washed lovingly by another cat I trusted, but that was long ago. My adult life was not gentle, and somewhere along the way, I lost the knack for affection. When I became pregnant against my will, I lost my appetite, for life as well as food. I felt as if I had turned to stone. When they were born, I cared for my kittens instinctively, reflexively, but my heart was cold. I was not surprised when my kittens and I were unceremoniously stuffed into a box and taken to the terrible place. The stench of fear, death, disease, and despair seemed like the natural conclusion to the path my life had taken. If I had not turned to stone in time, the sounds and smells of hundreds of cats, dogs, and humans under so much stress would have driven me mad. I simply waited in my cage for the end.

I remember a soft voice and a soft touch, and gentle hands holding my kittens. I was as tolerant as a rock, unmoved and unmoving. I was put into another box with my kittens, and taken to a new place, a much quieter place. A human person brought me food and water, and cleaned up after me and my kittens. Every day she would roll a ball past me, or wave some feathers in front of my eyes, but I didn't watch the ball or the feathers. Every day she picked me up, placed me on her lap, and stroked me gently, but I didn't arch my back or purr or rub my jaw against her hand. I just held still until she put me down again. I washed my kittens dutifully and let them feed, but I took no joy in them.

A day came when my kittens were taken away in the morning. All I felt was a faint sense of relief that my responsibility to them, an iron chain forged by instinct, was finally severed, and by the afternoon, I had fully adjusted to finally being alone. It was a shock when they came back, reeking of chemicals and a faint but distinct whiff of blood. I was terrified and confused, and hissed at them; they still ran to me, trying to press themselves against me, and I swatted them away. The person gathered them up and quickly moved me to a new room. She put a litter box, food and water, and a bed in the room with me and shut the door. As soon as I confirmed that I was alone again, I settled into quiet solitude.

Every day, the person placed me on her lap and stroked me gently. Eventually, the stone that had invaded my body and my heart began to wear away, and I was surprised to feel a sort of ticklish pleasure at her touch. After a minute it became unbearable, and I hissed or snapped at her hand. She always stopped, and left me alone for a while, but she always came back later to pet me again. Gradually, the feeling of irritation at her touch eased, and I allowed her to touch me for longer and longer stretches of time. One day I felt strangely restless, and it took me a moment to understand that I was missing her presence. I began to look forward to her visits, and when she stroked my face, I began to close my eyes and rub my jaw along her hand. The only thing that spoiled this feeling was the presence of other cats outside my door. The sound of them made me angry and frightened, and if I heard a meow while my person was petting me, I had to hiss and jump off her lap. People didn't seem so bad any more, but the presence of other cats was unbearable.

One day, my person suddenly stopped stroking my head and placed her hand gently on my throat and chest. I realized she was feeling the faint vibration that had risen there: I was purring, very softly, for the first time in as long as I could remember. At night, I began to seek out her company before she went to sleep. I would jump up on her bed and let her pet me for a few minutes, then find a spot to sleep within sight of her. One day I noticed a long string hanging from her clothing, and reached out to swat it. She wagged the string back in forth in front of me, and I followed its movement intently, swatting as it came closer. Soon I discovered the joy of chasing all kinds of moving things: strings, feathers, bits of paper or plastic. I became more and more exuberant in my efforts to catch them, leaping in the air and exposing my belly without fear. At bed time, she would move her hand underneath the bed covers, and I would stalk and pounce the lump as if it were a mole burrowing under sod.

These days, I realize I am grateful that my path did not end in the terrible place, where so many other desperate lives have ended. At the time I would have accepted death as something to be expected from the hands of humans. It took a long time, but now I've learned to accept and expect more from human hands: kindness, companionship, nourishment, pleasure, and play. My person can pet me for a long time now; in fact, she doesn't have to pick me up anymore, I will usually jump onto her lap of my own accord. And I rarely hiss or bite at her anymore. I am proud to say that even in my darkest time, I never marked her with my teeth; I was only warning her, and she always respected those warnings. I guess that was my first inkling that I could trust her, and how she learned to trust me as well. My only regret is the presence of other cats on the other side of my door. If only I could have all of this in a home with no other cats, I would be completely content.