Several weeks before Christmas the word was out. Kittens were available. A mother had a litter of four males, two females. I heard the discussions, thought they were interesting, but didn’t give much thought to getting a kitten for myself.
My first exposure to the full reality, and truth, of the situation was when my upstairs neighbor Adam hollered down about having a full house.
“What are you talking about?”
“I have mama and six kittens filling my cell right now.” He laughed, truly enjoying the experience.
I heard meows, some extra activity above, then a tiny face appeared in the hole. Cute as hell. Large ears pointing straight up, tiny paws.
Adam laughed again, then called out, “Ouch! Biting my toes! Hold on.” He always wears socks, and a pair of kittens had gone to war with his feet. Then his leg. Scratched his side and hands.
I listened to him talking to them, laughing.
“I love this,” he said.
“Why do you have them?”
“Guy they belong to sent them to me ’cause he’s having issues with the laws.”
“How long do you expect to have them?”
“I don’t know.” His voice faded as he playfully scolded a kitten about using his back as a scratching post. “Don’t know, but it’s fine. This is awesome.”
It was a lighthearted side of Adam I’d never witnessed. He was a kid again up in his cell laying on the floor, rolling around with kittens. And Mama cat, of course.
“Wow, that was horrible,” he told me the following day.
He has a way of appearing at the hole and saying random things. “What’s up?” I stepped on the bunk to get closer, to hear better.
“Sometime last night,” he explained, “Mama cat got in my big locker and dropped two huge piles of crap! Man, it’s foul.”
I laughed.
“I’m serious! I’ve cleaned the locker three times, and the smell won’t leave!”
I sent him up some strongly scented face wash. Even THAT didn’t work.
“Think I’m gonna have to scrape the paint off. God, it stinks.”
Turns out he did exactly that. And he made sure to block off the locker to keep Mama out.
That first cat-sitting experience lasted a couple days, then the owner collected them. Afterward, the prospect of “getting” a kitten was Adam’s goal. He acquired one, but delivery was delayed because the kittens were still weaning.
“How old are they?” I asked him after learning one would eventually take up residence in his cell full-time.
“Four to five weeks, I think? Their eyes are open. They run and play but are still wobbly. A few more weeks and they should be good.”
Adam had told me about having cats on other units. Now he was sharing more detailed knowledge he’d learned about how to care for them. He knew how to bottle feed, help them use the rest room, and how to teach them boundaries with a water squirter and sound.
In talks with Linda, I learned more detailed information about the weaning process, and about diet considerations. It became necessary because the guy who owned the mama and kittens moved to our section. A kitten was acquired for me—against my will. And two weeks before Christmas we took delivery. Adam had them both passed to me first.
*****
Had it been up to me, I would’ve avoided getting the kitten. Doing so didn’t seem to line up with my plans. For instance, I was approved and on a waiting list to go to a program (actually I still am). If transferred to another unit I wouldn’t be able to take the kitten, so I figured it to be a bad investment.
My feelings began changing about a week into having a feisty, meowing talk-crap-about-everything kitten. She was totally dependent on me. I marveled at how quickly she learned. Her meows demanded my attention. I figured out her toilet situation first. Then a mix-up existed between “feed me” and “I want to play,” but enough bites and scratches assisted my understanding. “I’m sleepy” was easy because her eyes closed, and she fell over while meowing. Hilarious to watch!
I thought about naming her “Sassy,” but that was only how she acted.
It was during a conversation with Adam, learning he’d named his kitten “Brownie,” when I remembered the lyrics of a song. “Any man of mine, better walk the line . . .” I sang it out and laughed, knowing I was under the thrall of “Shania.” With every meow she issued, the song popped into my mind, and I smiled. Granted those early days were frustrating because cats are naturally curious. Meaning little Ms. Talk-Shit got into and under everything! Under my bunk was an issue because she’d evidently peed in that location in another cell.
I was immediately confronted with how I could be more patient and compassionate. I punished Shania to train her but despised the experience. Once while trying to get her out from under the bunk her leg was injured. That brought me to tears and pushed me to seek better ways to help “her” understand.
Licking floors and walls was bad. Certain areas of the cell could be dangerous. Her toilet activities needed to be confined to one area. Blocking areas with books provided that direction by removing temptations. I also developed the mindset of when a situation arose, it was my fault for not recognizing the problem. The more I engaged mindfulness to reduce temptation, the faster she learned.
With time, because I’m quiet by nature, Shania became quieter as well. Oh, she’d meow (like I was beating her to death) during baths, or when needing to clean her paws, but I learned to anticipate toilet needs, hunger, wanting to play, then the “touch me, cuddle, time to sleep.”
My effort with Shania was echoed by Adam with Brownie. Through the hole he shared commentary about antics in his cell. Brownie got a haircut, trimmed up to look exotic. Being lighter brown with black stripes, you could imagine a real, tiny tiger. When Adam took “her” to the day room, I sent Shania out to the “cat park” to explore and play. Dirty, often foul and loud out there, but the activity was great for them — freeing them from being cooped up in a cell with their trained humans!
Shania learned how to climb early on. I draped a blanket down the side of my bunk, and soon she was up and down at will. So, I thought to enhance her climbing ability and strength on hanging bags. Our mouse infestation necessitates hanging our food up. I had three bags dangling, resting on each other, and Shania latched onto them with zeal, climbing and biting the material (mostly nylon mesh).
One day, though, I took my eyes off of her for a moment and, somehow, she fell. I heard her squeak, turned, saw her falling in slow motion, but couldn’t reach where she landed on unevenly stacked books. Her paws were down, but the staggered impact sprained her front left leg. Cries were immediate and loud. She tried to walk but the leg collapsed. I scooped her up and held her until she got quiet and stopped shaking. A typical process I used to help her overcome fear when startled. When she settled down, I tenderly examined her leg. No breaks but I found the sore area.
That’s how I began my career as a kitty sports therapist! Cream cheese as a treat to calm her. Massages. Gentle stretching, leg extensions, and mobility pumps. Crazy how Brownie, startled by an unknown noise that caused her to leap up, tumble back and fall off Adam’s bunk, also got injured with a wounded back hip. That led to Adam becoming a physical therapist as well.
“I can’t believe she did that,” Adam said. “She jumped two feet in the air and fell off where I usually have my boots! I’d removed them because the wall is sweating.” Brownie did most of “her” sleeping on the floor from that point on.
Shania was placed on extraordinary climbing restriction.
*****
Days passed quickly and blissfully with our companions. Within the first week therapeutic impact was easy to recognize. I’d spent years developing a meditation practice, becoming adept at introspection — how to evaluate and process trauma effectively — but Shania’s dependency required a deeper level of intentional humility.
Something I was beginning to realize occurred when the first interruption in the new way of living took place. For the first time in my 15 years of residing back here, a shakedown was performed before Christmas. F-Pod was out of control with drugs (leading to a death on 5-Section), so I understood why. I just wasn’t pleased with the prospect of “what to do with Shania?” Luckily for Adam and me, a guard was willing to collect all the cats and have them placed in a safe place.
As soon as the in-cell tornado action ended, the cats were returned. It was fairly seamless — a sigh of relief. Yet a thought lingered in the back of my mind, “What about next time?” A valid consideration because major shakedowns usually happen every 3 months, and the guard who helped made it clear she wouldn’t do so again. You see, technically the cats/kittens were contraband. Allowing feral cats to prowl the prison grounds was one thing, in-cell pets another, even though it was common knowledge many guys had cats on units like Coffield or Wainwright (formerly Eastham). Those long tiers provide more outside access routes, so guys (as I’ve been told) release their cats during shakedowns and collect them afterwards.
Doing so here is much more difficult. No windows are broken or can be opened to the outside. Most recreation areas are inside or walled in outside. And cats have never prowled the hallways here. If seen they’d be evicted quickly, transferred to grassy areas between fences outside this building. That leaves only two ways to obtain a cat/kitten: smuggled in or officially allowed.
I learned about the “smuggle” job from the source.
“I was walking back from medical,” Scrappy explained from the dayroom. A kitten walked around his feet. “There was this cat just sitting, watching me. Like saying, ‘Are you gonna pick me up or what?!'” He bent, picked up the kitten, petted it. Smiled. “So, when we were passing I snatched it up. The guard didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to open the gate, but they did. And on the building the officer draped a towel over the cat.”
Later he learned she was pregnant. It was an interesting story, because he recognized the cat from his time on Coffield. She’d been his cat there, then released. At some point she evidently crossed the distance to this unit. Others reported having her and that she ate her first litter, so he didn’t know what to expect.
“One day I smelled blood,” his face scrunched up. “Was horrible. ‘What the fuck?’ So, I went looking for her and found her under the bunk. Blood was everywhere and kittens were coming out. I think yours was fourth.”
*****
I sewed a harness for Shania so I could let her walk around outside my cell. Tie on a leash, drop her out the tray slot, and she had no problem investigating things. Especially all the mice running around! The harness also helped when I sent her to the day room. Those not-so-clean environments came with a consequence, though … bath time!
You’d think by the way she meowed and whined I was beating her to death! Shania made it abundantly clear that she did NOT like water. But she pestered me relentlessly to go “out.” Every time someone was in the day room Shania wanted to investigate. If one of her siblings was out there, she WANTED to play. I’d tell her, as I tied her harness on, “Now be still, you asked for this with all that meowing. I’ll let you go out, just know a bath will be waiting when you return.”
I’d get stared down, the “you wouldn’t dare” variety.
“Oh, I will, a full bath.”
She’d blink, then roll her head, facing away as if to suggest her only interest was in getting “her” way. And I let her.
She prowled, pranced, pounced, and sometimes limped around if she was still on injured reserve. I know she enjoyed the activity, right up until she returned home, got scooped up, and placed in the sink under warm, running water.
“MEEEOOOW!” Shania ranted. I understood her “I can’t believe you are doing this to me!” Yet I wasn’t moved.
I’m known to be fairly stubborn.
Shania’s meowing and clawing continued until I grabbed her by the scruff of her neck. “You’re okay, girl. Let me get the soap massaged in.” I was using bodywash. “Then a quick rinse and you’ll be dry in no time.”
Completely soaked revealed how small Shania’s body was. The fur drooped giving off a sad vibe. Eyes wide as I held her scruff, mouth slightly open in a “you got me” expression, she looked miserable. And maybe she was. She certainly kept voicing her dissatisfaction when the bath was done, and I grabbed a towel.
Poor girl meowed when the cloth touched her, and meowed when I held her. She shook and meowed. Then when mostly dry, she sat facing away from me and meowed anytime I’d get close, scooting a bit farther away. Yeah, okay, the “I’m not happy with you right now” message was received. I laughed and left her alone. Soon she was contorting for a full-on lick-down session.
I helped Adam make a harness for Brownie, and similar bathing adventures took place for them. Adam told me, “Man it’s like a punishment for her to go out there. So, I’m not going for a while.”
I understood, but other bathing opportunities presented themselves. Shania plopping down in her own pee? Yep. Stepping in or stumbling over her own poop? Of course. The early bathroom was a designated flat area by the toilet on rags. I upgraded her to a bowl, then one bowl inside another providing a drain. But mishaps still occurred, usually requiring a soapy rag wipe-down of each paw to belly and back end, producing meows of displeasure. Those “no, no, stop that” complaints were ignored with calm assurances, and at the end a kiss on the cheek.
No doubt leaving her traumatized, right?
*****
The stretch, pee, snack, play (and play and play), food then nap routine merged nicely into my own. And don’t forget “pet me!” I didn’t have a choice. My cell became Shania’s. My life began revolving around her.
Toys. A wire ball for soccer, hacky sack, or long periods of speed bag. Paper rolled into poles served as wands. Any string or line trailed on the floor produced squats, butt wiggles, and pounces. Including the arched, sideways prance and lunge. Shania was easy to entertain, even when my body became a focus for her claws and teeth. Before I learned to clip her nails, I was covered in scratches!
Food. Yes, I spoiled her early on with pure fish and chicken. She was a wee thing, though, still growing. The downside was when I’d set a food tray on the floor for her to inspect (which was required to silence her “need to know” meows) and she ignored everything, making expanding her diet difficult. Cat food is expensive. Thankfully Shania ate tiny portions so one pouch would last two or three days. One spoon of food was good for several hours of return visits, but food spoiling was an issue. Without refrigeration or an ice cooler, I used my hot pot to keep opened pouches warm. Heat worked great (and still does). Downside? Shania doesn’t like hot, or WARM food. Which meant I needed to add water, often cream cheese, and mix it until ready — all the while suffering her “can’t you see I’m hungry?” meows and demands to “hurry up!” Snacks were easy. Cream cheese on a finger did the trick.
Sleep. Watching where I stepped and making sure I always knew where Shania was while awake was one thing, controlling how I moved while asleep to avoid hurting her was another. Changes happened the first night. As a side sleeper, I rotated to alleviate pain and discomfort. But feeling Shania beside me either caused me to move slower or not at all. And somehow being more alert while sleeping made me feel more rested.
Those added life dynamics became more precious each day. The same was true with Adam, actually more so because Brownie represented a focus — a lifeline dragging him back from the brink of despair. Adam’s caring nature flourished, and devotion never wavered, even when Ms. Brownie dropped some nuts, becoming Mr. Gremlin!
*****
I was awake between 7 and 8 AM, Tuesday of the last week in January. While filling my hotpot to make some coffee, I noticed a congregation of guards out in the walk space. Soon “shakedown” was called out, and guards filed into 1-Section.
Adam had stayed up all night and recently laid down. I beat and yelled and shared the news when he finally responded. Then I began considering the contraband in my possession. Extra pens and clothes, trays I used to stack books on to keep water off them when floods happened, etc. The list went on. One thing I didn’t worry about, though, was Shania.
That might seem odd, but after the last shakedown I was asked to draft a proposal for a Cat Program. A female guard was willing to act as the coordinator, already having connections to volunteer services for medical needs. After I finished the proposal, the female guard took it, copied it, and shared it with senior administrators. The feedback Adam and I received was the program had traction to gain formal approval. Most importantly, though, the Administration did not indicate the cats would be taken. In other words, the Administration had no problem with us having cats, and a program involving them was being established.
The shakedown crew reached 3-section, where Adam and I reside, in the 10 AM hour. Adam called a Sergeant to his door and mentioned the cats, sharing what we knew, and asked if there would be any problems. The Sergeant responded, “Man, I’m from Coffield. I’m not worried about cats. I want what I can put you in a Courthouse for.”
Adam and I intended to carry our kittens, which wouldn’t be difficult. Leaving them in the cell wasn’t feasible because of the drug dogs. The normal procedure is to get stripped search, then, “exit the cell in boxers and shower shoes only.” Being on one row I was first to endure the process. Once dressed again, I asked the guard if he wanted to search the bag I showed him.
“I’ll carry her in it,” I said, motioning to Shania.
He said, “You can’t carry the cat.”
“Why not? The Administration approves of them.”
The guard repeated himself, then walked away calling for the Major. Soon the Major stood at my door and told me I couldn’t carry Shania, he had no knowledge of a program, and he planned to take the cats.
We went back and forth with the discussion. I was respectful. Not loud, just curious about why the contradiction existed. The Major was adamant, though, “Leave the cat and come out or we will gas you.” I gave Adam as much play-by-play as I could.
“Taking them?!” Of course, Adam was frustrated. He went to his door, tried to call the Major up to him, but there was no compassion, only aggression from the guards.
Threats annoy me. The Major began calling in an ICS, shaking up a gas canister, and I just shook my head. There was no way I would let them spray gas in the cell and possibly suffocate Shania. The issue wasn’t that serious. I wasn’t refusing to exit the cell; my concern was for Shania’s safety.
Drama.
I kissed Shania, made sure her harness fit properly, and set her on the bunk. But she jumped down as I was being cuffed. “Oh baby, don’t come over here.” She slowed, watching as the cell was opened and I backed out. She sat staring at me with wide eyes. I stoically told her to stay, “be a good girl,” then walked directly to a Sergeant on the Regional Team I knew, turned, motioned to Shania, and said, “Please make sure she’s okay.”
He nodded and I let the guard lead me away.
In 5-section shower I waited, not knowing what to expect. I talked to “Speedy” who was in the day room, and eventually learned Adam ended up in 6-section day room. After about 45 minutes, the shakedown Sergeant I knew walked up, body-cam off.
“Your cat was hissing at the dogs, but now she’s outside running around,” he told me.
“Thank you,” I replied.
“Well, you’ve never given me any trouble,” he said. “I had a porter place the cat outside. People were watching. That was the best I could do.”
I understood. He’d already done more than expected. If the Major was set on taking the kittens, my only hope was that Shania wouldn’t be mistreated. So, if Shania was outside waiting for me to go get her, a prayer was answered.
“Could you help with getting her back to my cell?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’ve done all I can. See if one of the porters will slip her in your Johnnie.” He smiled.
“Yeah.” I laughed, relaxing.
“Well, I should turn this back on.” He pressed a button on the body-cam and circular green lights on the front came on. “Hello, Inmate, are you okay in there?”
I grinned. “Doing okay based on the circumstances.”
We chatted a bit more, with him telling me about falling, injuring his knee. He was wearing a brace and had opted out of physical therapy to avoid missing work. We discussed the exercises he did to strengthen the area and how he’d likely need surgery in the future. He hoped to delay that as long as possible.
“I should get back over there,” he told me. “They’re almost done, then they’ll go on break.”
“Thanks again,” I said.
He nodded, told me to stay out of trouble, then walked off.
As soon as the Sergeant left the section, I called Speedy over.
“Can you give Adam a message for me?” I asked
“Sure.”
“Please tell him that Shania is on the outside rec-yard, and I’ll need help getting her back.”
Speedy nodded and walked over to beat on the wall, calling Adam’s name. Too much background noise and distance prevented me from hearing what was said directly, but soon Speedy returned letting me know Adam said the Major took them off the pod.
“Adam said he saw the Major carrying the box with Adam’s cat in it, and a bag with the other.”
I took a deep breath, said, “Okay,” and began considering options.
Adam called Speedy back and a question was asked, but I told him I’d talk to Adam once back in the cell.
As I waited for escorts, I prayed Shania was okay and that she was in a safe place. I could let her go if necessary. I understood the reality of this place when I acquired her. Of course, I regretted the circumstances, how we’d acted with integrity and honesty, when we could have sent the kittens off for safekeeping. What the major said seemed to be full of contradictions, deception, perhaps even bold-faced lies. The sergeant indicated not knowing what happened to the other kitten when I asked, but it could be outside as well. So, if Adam saw the box, his kitten, and a bag carried off the pod, it was possible the Major went outside himself and collected them.
The truth eventually revealed itself.
*****
Topsy-turvy, tornadoed property is what awaited me in my cell. Most of it in a pile. I wasn’t worried about what they took, but I kept expecting Shania to pop into view. Perhaps meow, demanding food. The weight of her absence saddened me. I didn’t feel like cleaning, didn’t care to, and I couldn’t stop going to the door, staring at the outside windows in the distance, hoping to catch a glimpse of Shania running around.
I watched them bring Adam back. The expression on his face was . . . lost. Once in his cell I asked what he saw, and he vented anger and grief over watching the Major carry Gremlin off the pod.
“I cried the whole time in the day room,” Adam said. “The Major took my boy. Gremlin was in his box. I stayed up all night making it for him. A little house and his bed.”
He paused, cried. I remained silent, waiting.
“When they came to get me, Gremlin wouldn’t go in his box.” Adam’s voice broke. “He clung to my neck with both front paws, wouldn’t let go.” A breath, more tears. “He knew . . . he knew.”
Adam placed all the food he had for Gremlin in the box. Six sriracha mackerel pouches and nine packages of cream cheese. Evidently the Major took those as well. All I knew is that I was sharing in a grief that no words could hope to lessen. Adam was more than heartbroken, he was crushed.
Was that the reason I forgot to suggest, “Maybe Shania is actually outside? Shouldn’t we go check?”
I didn’t want to challenge Adam when he was in that state, suggesting that he could be wrong. He values his “word” and “abhors” lies. If he were to somehow feel I called him a liar, his suffering would intensify. Instead, I prayed, for Adam and Shania. I prayed a revelation would come. I let go of what I wanted, and focused on being still, opening up to possibility — accepting what was and leaning into the test, the pain.
And a revelation did come.
“Daniel,” Adam hollered at me through the hole in our wall. When I answered, he said, “The SSI just told me a cat is running around outside. Has to be Shania.”
My heart rate increased. “Can he go get her?”
“He’s going right now,” Adam replied.
A few hours had passed since we were shook down, so my cell was clean again. My property was back in order. I walked to the door, watching as the SSI made his way towards 1-section. It should have been easy for him to get the doors open and bring Shania home, but guys in 1-section were starting fires and flooding. The picket guard wouldn’t let the SSI in.
I watched the SSI leave with disappointment. I knew where Shania was with no way to retrieve her. Adam was fired up, very vocal, but his extroverted nature wasn’t my way. I paced, meditated, breathed and waited. When I saw the SSI again, I asked if he could try to get the kitten outside.
“Man, the picket won’t let me in with the fires and flooding. I already tried.” He told me and walked off.
In hindsight, perhaps I should’ve let rage consume me, begin banging, start a fire, or flood, defying my nature. Guards were ignoring the tripped power and other pleas, though, so how could I expect them to take me out of my cell and escort me to recover Shania? Besides, I didn’t want to draw any negative attention to her. So, I waited.
And waited.
Later in the day I heard a guard open the outside rec-yard door, to vent smoke. I wondered if Shania would come inside, and prayed she’d have sense enough not to. Then I heard someone commenting on “a cat running around outside,” but too much noise and distance hindered clarity.
It wasn’t until second shift that a decent guard agreed to go outside and get Shania. With a flashlight he searched, then came back and said, “Nothing.”
I told Adam about what I’d heard earlier, and we fired off kites to 1-section, asking where the kitten on the rec-yard went. Was she still on the pod? Did anyone know anything?
Wednesday brought another revelation.
Adam received a kite, which read, “This is Cisco. I paid a maintenance worker to bring me the kitten. I haven’t dedicated her yet. I’m willing to let her go, but I’m not losing what I paid and a dedication. What’s up?”
Translation. “I’ve catnapped your kitten. Either pay me or I kill her.”
When Adam explained what the “dedication” represented, I felt intensely cold, enraged. Cisco was a follower of Santa Muerte and a cat hater. He was planning to sacrifice Shania on an altar. Something I would never let happen.
“I’ll cover the cost of what he paid,” I told Adam. “I don’t care if he’s lying about it, looking to profit. Getting Shania away from him is all that matters.”
But I stressed I wouldn’t be extorted, either. I could accept responsibility for the situation, and I was grateful Cisco got her out of the elements, into a sanctuary of sorts. Threatening her life, however, wasn’t acceptable.
Adam drafted a kite and sent it off. I began working to handle the cost.
By Wednesday night an agreement was in place. I was exhausted so I went to sleep. Adam burned the midnight oil, staying on top of the issue, using his contacts. I had no problem deferring to him as the front man. He did a masterful job — even while suffering from intense grief.
But Thursday brought another revelation.
I woke up to learning about Cisco sending a kitten somewhere else, despite the agreement. Adam was pissed!
“I’m trying to verify which was sent,” he told me.
“What do you mean, Cisco had two kittens?”
“I don’t know,” Adam admitted, voice laced with fatigue. “I’ve been up all night trying to figure this out. My heart stopped when Third told me the kitten had brown fur and didn’t walk well.”
That better described Gremlin. Shania had a black spine, with gray and black stripes on her body and legs, though brown highlights existed, especially on her face. And half her nose. Gremlin was primarily brown with black stripes. He was the lightest of the litter and unique in coloring.
“I thought the Major took … “
“Yeah, I don’t know what to think,” Adam interrupted me. “Last night Cisco sent a kitten to Scrappy.”
“If Scrappy has Shania she’s in a better place,” I said. I originally acquired her from Scrappy, so it was easy to feel at ease with the situation. “He has no reason to hurt her.”
“You forget Scrappy also worships Santa Muerte,” Adam said in a hoarse voice, obviously stressed.
A detail I’d forgotten. “Maybe so, but he won’t hurt her if a profit can be made.”
“Yeah,” Adam admitted. “But I still need to verify it’s her.”
And I let him do just that. Many cower in a crisis. Not Adam. Sleep and pain be damn. He was committed to getting his “niece” back, whatever it took.
Turns out Scrappy had Shania. Which meant Gremlin was truly gone. Adam fought through another spike in his chest, a brief bout of tears. And negotiations were far more dramatic than they needed to be. The SSI who couldn’t get Shania on Tuesday was the go-between.
He told me, “Scrappy says whoever left the cat outside didn’t want it.”
Which couldn’t have been further from the truth. I talked to the SSI about the circumstances, some he’d been involved in directly. I also wrote a kite and handed it to him.
“Please give that to Scrappy,” I said. “And tell him what I said, how you were involved Tuesday.”
“And I’ll tell him you’re willing to pay.”
Back and forth, all day long, arguing over the cost. Annoying. At one point Adam told me to make an appearance, which meant getting the guard to pull me out and take me to Scrappy’s cell. I tried. The guard said he would but never came through. Finally, Adam had enough.
“Go tell Scrappy 25 out the house and to send the damn kitten.” He told the SSI. “100 later, that’s my word.”
And like magic, there she was. I heard her cry in the distance.
“Does she look familiar?” Adam asked.
I looked up the hole into the eyes of a dream come true.
“Shania,” I whispered, and she meowed.
And meowed, crying.
“She’s hurt bad,” Adam grated out with controlled fury. “She can’t walk, and I can’t tell if it’s her.”
“Look at her nose,” I instructed. “If it’s half brown and white you’re holding Shania.”
“Yeah,” he breathed out, acknowledging it was her.
I was at peace, my heart filled with gratitude, and I passed him some food. In the end it took Adam’s “word” to bring Shania home. I couldn’t have done it without him.
In this story let me be the villain, the failure. Let the blame rest on my shoulders for the misunderstandings and breakdowns in communication. Let Adam know peace through the misery and scars.
“Daniel, heads up!” Adam called out.
I went to the door and watched the SSI walk down the stairs with Shania in his arms. When he handed her to me, she reached out both paws, hugged my neck, dipped her head beneath my chin and purred.
I cried.
I shed tears for whatever my foolish trust in the Administration cost her. I shed tears for Adam, knowing he was broken. And tears glistened in my eyes for the way that was made, a miraculous prayer answered.
*****
The aftermath.
Within an hour of being home Shania was acting more like her normal self, losing the thousand-mile stare. Physical therapy and massages helped her wobble to her bowl and devour chunk chicken. Then she slurped cream cheese and took a long piss. I knew she’d be okay.
Adam crashed and slept for a few days. The exceptional effort that brought Shania home didn’t mend his broken heart, and he threatened to withdraw.
I encouraged him. “Don’t seek an escape, my friend. You need to lean into the pain, not erect walls or withdraw into a cave.”
Adam listened and fought, cried, prayed . . . and raged. Anger was inevitable considering the irrational circumstances that resulted in Gremlin’s loss. Over a ten-day stretch we learned the nurse who supposedly took Gremlin home never saw him.
“I have five dogs,” she told Adam. “I don’t need a cat. And by looking at your face right now, I never would’ve taken your cat from you.”
Captain Hyatt apologized to Adam about Gremlin getting taken. I wrote two open letters to the Administration, hoping the Cat Program would be fully approved to safeguard the cats going forward. The second letter was returned bearing a short message about “no cats allowed.” Oh, how the narrative changed to cover up nonsense.
But as I reminded Adam the day we learned from an SSI that the Major was seen releasing Gremlin outside, shooing him off and closing the gate, “It isn’t the end of the story.”
Adam hates it when I’m right.
Is it possible that losing Gremlin was necessary to make a way for another cat who needed the love and care Adam could provide? Perhaps a kitten that was stepped on, suffered malnutrition and neglect?
Shania spent a day with Adam, which helped him heal. Now “Whisper” is in his life, and the transformation has been miraculous. Another prayer answered.
*****
In a perfect world everyone would develop mastery of introspection, capable of objectively reviewing their lives, seeing root conditioning and new possibilities that could affect healing. But all too often external stimuli are needed.
That is what Prison Animal Programs (PAPs) can offer in controlled environments. The Texas Department of Criminal Justice already promotes PAPs for horses and dogs, but only in “population” living areas. Texas, however, arguably has the largest number of inmates housed in solitary environments. The name change from Administrative Segregation to Restrictive Housing didn’t change that reality. And the persistence to maintain the practice is questionable. So why not try what has been proven to work?
When I submitted the proposal for the Cool Cat Program (or Cool Cat Therapeutic Community), I hoped the Administration would recognize the benefits of introducing an incentivized living area in Restrictive Housing. Focusing on cats would give men an opportunity to invest in life, as well as being comforted by a therapeutic companion.
A community would be forged.
Violence and aberrant behavior would be reduced.
And a better, less stressful work environment would exist for Correctional Officers.
I don’t believe it was (or is) an unrealistic dream. But advocates are always needed to inspire program participants and encourage administrators and facilitators. Public support affects change, especially when public safety can be enhanced through programs known to cultivate virtues needed for a society to thrive.
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