Surrendering cat to new mom heart-wrenching

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It’s 6 a.m. and Zoe is asleep beside me. As if anticipating the trauma of the day ahead, she has instinctually nestled herself close to my heart rather than at the bottom of the bed, where she typically spends the night. She is not aware I am watching her. Usually, it is the other way around.

I am not, strictly speaking, a cat person. But today is the day the cat gets a new mom, and this makes me surprisingly glum. In the last weeks, I’ve found myself euphemistically calling the change a “relocation,” as if Zoe were a foster child. I try to put a happy spin on the event. “I’m gone a lot now,” I tell friends. “Zoe deserves better.”

But this morning, I feel sickish, the way you do when you know something is right but you wish it were wrong.

Frankly, I wasn’t this emotional when my daughter left for college. People ask me how long it took me to adjust to that little “relocation.” Thirty seconds, I say.

My daughter, of course, will be back. The cat is going forever.

Once Zoe’s eyes open from sleep, we linger in bed. I wistfully stroke her face. She innocently kneads my blanket — a motion I like to associate with her need for mothering.

An hour later, I hold Zoe firmly in my arms and drop a small tablet down her throat. Her mouth instantly locks shut and she hops from my arms. I tap her nose playfully, and she sticks out her tongue. She has swallowed the pill.

I wish I had one for myself as I collect her food bowls, gather her toys, and stuff her favorite quilt into a travel bag.

Before disposing of the litter box, I scoop several cupfuls of the sand into a plastic container. In an e-mail, Zoe’s new mom, who trained in veterinary science, has thoughtfully — and apologetically — requested this smelly gift.

“Scent is very important to any pet when it comes to establishing or familiarizing itself with new territory,” she wrote. “I know this sounds bizarre, but it’s for Zoe’s good, and that, after all, is what counts, right? Just keep thinking that while you scoop.”

My mind, however, is thick into other territory.

—-

Ever try to find a home for an adult cat? Everyone wants a kitten. They want two kittens. But nobody wants a cat that already has habits.

Let me tell you: It’s a tough world out there for used cats.

Your friends mean to be helpful when they say, “Take her to the Humane Society.” Or “What about those adoption agencies for mature animals?”

And yes, I called both types of places and had supportive conversations with kind workers there. They understand. They see this every day.

But they have rules, too. And no easy answers. Place a free ad, they advise. Surf the net. Put up signs. The words that echo are: “Good luck.”

The best I can do in this department is to send a photo with a hand-decorated notecard to a postmaster on an idyllic island. She promises to put the package on the community bulletin board, and I spend several days imagining Zoe stalking mice and bugs in the ocean breeze.

In the meantime, family, friends, cat lovers for miles around hear my plea. I have long conversations with strangers whose numbers have been given to me by enthusiastic well-wishers. Pet zealots, it turns out, can’t just say yes or no. They must also explain themselves, give histories, tell a story about the last cat they took in and, oh, isn’t it all just so awful?

I could cut them off, I know. But what can I tell you? I listen. I need all the good graces I can get.

“I have eight cats,” one woman explains. “I couldn’t take another.”

Huh?

“I have a friend who wants a cat,” a young co-worker announces. “I’ll call you tonight.”

The phone never rings, and she avoids me in the hallway.

Then, a farmer graciously invites Zoe to join her pack of cats.

“They live in the barn,” she tells me.

“Great,” I say.

“All year long,” she adds.

Zoe would never forgive me.

But at least it is a last resort, and one I hope not to use.

—-

It is 9 a.m. Time to leave. Zoe trustingly comes into my arms and enters her car kennel. She settles in and sniffs the air. Grogginess overtakes her.

The ride to western Maine is long, and several times I nudge Zoe to make sure she is alive.

I push my seat back as far at it goes and whisper to her. She blinks in that loving way and my heart breaks. I stick my finger between the bars and scratch her nose.

When we pull up in front of her new home, the windows are filled with a colorful sign: WELCOME ZOE.

Her new dad stops the lawn mower to greet us. Her new mom emerges from the front door. Her excitement sparkles from her eyes.

“Where is she?” New Mom asks.

A week ago, she left a message on my home answering machine. It was sudden, like a winning lottery ticket and a miracle.

“I hear you are looking for a home for Zoe,” the recording played back and I listened in disbelief. “I am looking for an older cat. Please call me.”

This is my daughter’s aunt. She lives in the country. She has animals instead of kids. She is kind. She is smart. She reads and bakes and plants flowers.

Bingo.

—-

Zoe is under her new mom’s bed. That’s where she wanders after sniffing the food bowls, the litter box, her blanket in this new setting. She turns to me as if to say: “What’s all my stuff doing here?” And then she is under the bed. I leave her and join the adults in the kitchen. There is a celebratory pie cooling on the stove and coffee in the pot.

Zoe likes to sit in the bath tub, I say. She will knock half-full glasses off the counter. She can catch a mouse. She likes to sleep at the bottom of the bed. She will get used to that yappy dog of yours.

Will you send me updates by e-mail? I ask.

Yes, her new mom tells me.

Am I counting my blessings? What do you think?

I climb the stairs one last time, lie across the bed and reach in from the wall side to Zoe’s back. She purrs and looks up at me through the crack of light between the bed and the wall.

—-

On the ride home, I stop at a mountain. I nearly run up from nervous energy. This is how I deal with the loss.

At the top, that’s when I feel it. The relief. For nearly six months, I’ve tried to find a home for this cat. Sure, I got other offers, but they weren’t exactly right. No to the woman with three big dogs. No to the fraternity boy at the Ivy League school. No to the shelters. Gratitude to the farmer, but no to her, too.

Yes, to the aunt who makes it feel like it takes a village to raise a cat.

Back at home, I hear the silence. I miss the cat, who has been there through my fevers, tears, parties, relationships and children.

Happy e-mail reports ding up on the screen nearly every day now. I am lucky this way. Secretly, this is the type of arrangement I wanted. Loving for Zoe. Hospitable to me. I have visitation rights.

I like Zoe’s new mom. I trust her. In her missives about Zoe, I recognize the cat.

“I will try to restrain myself, and not send you updates like `6:04 p.m. — she’s out from under the bed,’ `9:42 p.m. — she put one foot on the top step, then retreated,’ `3:29 a.m. — she kicked the crap out of the dog, woke the whole household and seems generally pleased with herself,’ ” she writes.

And finally: “We have a baby in the house now.”

That’s my cat. And the New Mom.