The Adventures of Taro – The Arrival

Taro arrived at his new home, not as a cute little double-handful of kitten fur, but as a wide-eyed, terrified armful of nervous floof. It was only to expected, really – he was rescued from an over-crowded household (two humans, a dog, and a pot-bellied pig), and an abusive owner to boot.

He had been found in the remains of a plastic shopping bag, abandoned on the side of the road, about 8 months before his eventual adoption by a real family. His original owner had not been too enamored of this handsome fellow, and had in fact named him "Tako" – Japanese for "octopus," with a slang meaning which translates roughly to "stupid idiot" or "dumbass." Even as a kitten, he had some issues with digestion, and his little kitten poopies had a rank odor – they stunk to high heaven and beyond. A trip to the litterbox to make his deposits were met not with approval (as in, "hey, the little guy is using the litterbox instead of pooping in my shoe, what a great cat"), but with shouts, and cursing, and at least on one occasion kickings.

Yes, I said kickings. As in, full contact, halfway across the room kind of kicking.

Finally mean kicking dude decided to get rid of this "nuisance." He complained about the cat to my father, who was at the time an auto mechanic – a good-natured man with a deep compassion for animals. Dad offered to take the cat, rather than let him go to the pound – or worse, get dumped on the street. The man (and I use the term loosely) agreed.

Dad had to bring the furball home without a carrier, as mean kicking dude did not have one. Nor was mean kicking dude willing to wait for another day, so that my dad could have at least gotten one of those cardboard carriers. And a car. But no, mean kicking dude couldn't wait, and so Dad had no choice but to bring the little furry-boy home on a motorcycle, tucked into the dubious safety of a tightly-belted, zipped leather jacket. Dad took the surface streets for the 20+ mile trip, going slow and making sure the not-so-little guy was safe the whole way. It took him about 3 hours to get home that night. Maybe longer.

Our first reaction: "That's not an 8-month old cat!"

Indeed, he didn't appear to be a mere 8 months old. For one thing, he must have been at least 7 pounds already. At the time, we had only ever had smaller cats, and had never had a cat larger than maybe 10 pounds full grown. This guy was already large, and we were sure he must have already reached adult size. Little did we know he'd grow into a 20+ pound behemoth of floofiness.

(For anyone interested, we're certain he is part ragdoll, which would explain the size. Ragdolls don't reach full maturity until they are about 4 years old, and at full weight males are about 15-20 pounds. Just a little fun fact for cat lovers.)

We noted immediately that he was a very jumpy boy. He poked around the house very cautiously, and if any of us moved too fast, he'd either cringe and freeze in terror, or take off running so fast as to break the sound barrier, as if afraid he was going to get beaten. The noise of a soda can being opened was enough to send him jumping 4 feet straight up into the air, where he'd perform an amazing mid-air somersault and take off running in the opposite direction as soon as his four-furred feet touched the ground. And when he jumped, you could hear the force of his jump echo through the floor – it was just like striking a taut drum.

His poops smelled God-awful, but he was so terrified of getting beaten for pooping that he'd literally poop-and-run, trying to put as much distance between himself and the litterbox as he could before the stench hit. And the sound of a plastic grocery bag would instantly result in implosion of cat hair, as almost instantaneously relocated himself to a safer (ie. bag-less) part of the house. He would never hiss or scratch, just run away in terror.

This immediately made the family extremely angry at the former owner, and we all set about doing our best to help the poor little guy adjust to his newly improved living circumstances.

In any case, the first item of business was a new name. We weren't about to be calling the poor boy a "stupid ass" for the rest of his life, that was for sure. And thus Mom bequeathed the name "Taro" upon him – close enough to his original "name" so as not to confuse him too much, but definitely less derogatory. (Of course, nicknames since that time have come to include: Taro-imo (taro root), Potato-boy, Floofy-butt, and Stinky-butt - but all meant in a caring, amusing kind of way.)

The next item of business was his shots. The original owner claimed that he'd taken the cat in for his first round of shots already, but didn't have the records. So when Mom took him in to the vet the week his arrival, the vet gave him what should have been his 2nd set of vaccinations.

But we found out to our horror that the guy probably lied, because Taro got very, VERY sick. He was feverish, and weak, and could barely walk. The vet told us to keep a very close eye on him, keep him comfortable, and make sure he had plenty of water. If he stopped drinking and eating, we were to bring him back IMMEDIATELY.

Mom was frantic with worry. We'd had the little (?) guy not more than a week or so, and she was afraid we were going to lose him. So she stayed with him all night in the kitchen, where he rested on the linoleum floor, and just gave him as much love and attention she could.

I think that time, more than anything else, was a turning point for Taro. Somewhere in his little kitty brain, he came to understand that this new home wasn’t like he last one. That these humans wouldn’t hurt and torment him.

It wasn’t an instant transformation though. He was still a jumpy cat, so often he’d become scared and he would scamper off in mortal fear for his life, all for a rustled grocery bag. It took a lot of reassurance and gentle support before he wasn’t terrified by the family laughing at something on the television, or someone opening a soda can. But we persisted, and in time, he changed, and grew, and became the cat he was meant to be.

A big, arrogant, short-tempered, self-important, bossy, but good natured cat.

But then, isn’t that why cats are so great?