The Saga of Porky and Tigger

March 12, 2024.

Driving into Sleepy Hollow Lane at night, with its gothic feel, you can't help but think of Washington Irving's classic tale of the Headless Horseman. The canopy of overhanging trees blocks the moon and stars and the only lights you see are yellow eyes reflected in your own headlights. Imagination runs wild as you wonder what wild animals are watching your approach to the cottage. The next day there is no sign of these forest dwellers but as you settle into the cottage routine, you become aware of feral cats that live in the surrounding bush. There were a number of these "bush" cats, probably originating from summer cottages and either getting lost in the bush or abandoned to fend for themselves. They had learned hunting and survival skills to weather the cold Canadian winters. As nature took its course, those that persevered mated and a new generation of cats were born to roam the bushes of Sleepy Hollow Lane. On their own they ate frogs, mice and birds. In the summer, attracted by the smells of barbeques and campfires they prowled the cottages at night, looking for food scraps left for them by sympathetic cottagers. Generally, they were too timid to approach people but they had their routines and could often be seen on the edge of the clearings watching and waiting.

Our first interaction with the feral cats, was with a very small black cat that was obviously pregnant. My wife, Sandy, dubbed her Mrs. P. for pussycat, and would leave a saucer of milk and kitchen scraps out on the deck for her at night. She came by every day for the food but would never come close enough to be petted. One day, when I was sitting in the cottage reading, she came up on the deck, stood on her hind legs and, with her front paws on the window, she let out a very distinct- sounding yowl, low and guttural. I knew instinctively she was trying to tell me something so I went out to see her. She proceeded down the stairs, looking back and calling again in that distinctive yowl. I followed her down the driveway to the lane and for about a thousand feet down the lane. She paused, looking back to make sure I was still following, and then went off into the bush, again looking back and keeping me in sight. She came to a large dead maple tree that was about two feet in diameter, and disappeared down a hole in the roots. I came and looked in to see her empty bed made of leaves. She called again and she was about ten feet behind the tree as she had exited from the back of the stump. I realized that she must have known she was about to have her kittens and would need help so she wanted me to see where she lived.

I left her alone and went back to the cottage. A couple of hours later, I went back with a flash light and she had indeed given birth to three fairly large kittens, but she was totally exhausted and did not move when I shone the light on her. Two of the kittens were all black, but I was taken by the third, who was black and white, and immediately I christened him Porky. I picked him up first so was the first human contact for him. Sandy and I brought food to the mother every day and surprisingly she allowed us to handle the kittens from the first day, but she still reacted to being touched. This early handling of the kittens must have created a bond as will become evident as this story progresses. I brought out my movie camera and took videos of them from day one as well as many photographs.

At the end of the summer, we had to go back to work but the kittens were only about three weeks old so could not be separated from their mother. We did not think they would survive the winter and planned to bring them home for adoption when they were older. We left her on a Monday with an extra amount of food and made arrangements with my wife's parents to come to feed her on Wednesday. I marked the trail to her nest with red flagging. Stan went out as planned but there was no sign of Mrs. P or the three kittens. We wondered if a raccoon had raided the nest but there was no sign of any disturbance and surely, she would have put up a fight to the death. We then wondered if our neighbours further down the lane had heard the kittens and taken them, but a call to Niagara Falls confirmed they had not. The next day the mystery was solved when Stan called and said Mrs. P had taken up residence in our wood shed beside the cottage with the three kittens. She had carried them over, one at a time, figuring if we didn't come to her, she'd come to us. Stan made up a bed for her with some old towels and constructed a plywood lean-to shelter for her. When we closed up the cottage for the season, some two weeks later, we made the agonizing decision to bring the kittens home, separating them from their mother at five weeks old. "Mrs. P" was just too wild for us to catch.

At home, we set up a litter box for them and they instinctively knew how to use it, never making a mess in the house. By this time Sandy had named the two black cats Tigger and Frosty, as one had a hint of white on his coat. Frosty turned out to be the most affectionate and friendly of the three. Tigger was always aloof and Porky was my cat. After we were sure they were house-trained and healthy, we set about to rehome them. Carol Sarault, a friend at work, fell in love with Frosty on the first visit and adopted him renaming him Zack. I ran into Carol years later and she said Zack lived to be eighteen and was always a perfect cat.

Porky and Tigger spent the first winter with us and were inseparable. We let them out at night and they prowled the neighborhood, bringing us mice as gifts. They loved the snow and we would see them tracking mice that had tunnels under the snow. With a two-footed, pile-driving pounce that would collapse the tunnel, then they dug frantically and retrieved the mouse before it knew what had happened. They had two very distinct personalities. Porky was the athlete and the brains. He had a standing vertical jump of eight feet as he would investigate bird's nests on top of downspouts. He would follow us on a walk like a dog. Often, he would go and meet our son on his way home from school and walk with him. People would remark that Stefan was walking his cat. Tigger was always timid and the follower. He was aloof and kept his distance except for the one time when he wandered off and was lost for week. He had crossed a four-lane street and turned up in a backyard a few miles away. Luckily, his name tag had our phone number and Stefan went to retrieve him. I was out searching for him and when I came home, I could hear him inside the house. That evening he was glued to me but that is the only time that he acknowledged that I was more than his personal can-opener.

Because Sandy and Stefan had severe allergies, we restricted the cats to the laundry room, family room and kitchen. There was a pocket door to the dining room that Porky could open with no problem until we put a wedge in it. There was an open archway out of the kitchen, that led to the front hall and the rest of the house. We thought we had solved that problem by stacking two baby gates, one on top of the other, to fill the doorway but Porky simply climbed them like Spider Cat. We had to add additional blocking at the top.

When cottage season arrived, we transported them to the cottage every weekend. Porky loved the ride and would simply settle on the dash and go to sleep. Tigger fussed the whole way yowling a distinctive "Wow, Wow Wow," all the way, scrambling all around the car, leaving sweaty paw prints on the upholstery. He would even cling to the fabric on the ceiling. They were right at home in the bush but Mrs. P. ignored them since they were now city cats. We would put them out at night and they would prowl until daybreak and then come to wake us up. There was a tin shed just below our bedroom window and they would hop up with a clatter and started meowing in the window. I solved that with a spray bottle of water. The boys loved the cottage and the freedom of exploring the bush they were born in. Tigger would even crawl up into the attic of the cottage, through the hole for the electric cables, and hunt mice up there. They were with us for a year until one day Sandy had a severe asthma attack and couldn't catch her breath. I was at work, unable to get away so our son drove her to emergency on his way to school. They kept her all day and sent her home in a taxi with two different inhalers that she had to use for a couple of years and strict instructions to get rid of the cats. The boys had to be re-homed.

Carol Cosgrove, another Carol from work, agreed to take both of them. Everything seemed settled until I got a phone call six months later and a deep husky voice said, "do you know who this is?" It was Carol, and she too had been struck down by allergies. We agreed to find the cats another home. The nice British Ladies, who ran the Friends of Abandoned Pets, had a long waiting list and could not help. I put an ad in the Citizen and posted flyers up at pet food stores and pet stores. Within a few days I had 10 responses. Mrs. Lafleur was the first to call so I connected her with Carol. I should have checked her out myself but I had to go to Yellowknife on a business trip the next day so left the details to Carol. When I returned from my trip, I had a message from a lady with a very distinctive smokers voice and heavy French accent. I recognized that it was Mrs. Lafleur. She was calling about the cats. Thinking there was a problem with Porky and Tigger, I called back immediately. She said she had seen my flyer at a pet food store and asked if I still had cats to give away, not realizing that I knew her voice. I asked what happened to the two cats that I had given her last week and she denied getting them. I told her she had taken a black and white and a black cat named Porky and Tigger from my friend Carol. She hung up. I called back immediately and her husband answered saying to stop calling because I was scaring his wife. Sandy was in the kitchen and she said she had never heard me use that tone of voice in all the time she had known me. I said "Listen Mr. Lafleur, I know where you live and I can be there in fifteen minutes. If you don't tell me what happened to the cats you are going to be a lot more scared than you are now." He said, "if I tell you where they are you won't give me shit?" I said, "are they alive?" He said yes but they were too much trouble so their son took them to the humane society.

The next morning, armed with a six-month-old picture of the boys, I was standing at the door of the old Humane Society building on Champagne St. when it opened. I went into the holding cages and immediately found Porky, who recognized me and came to greet me. Tigger was a bit harder to identify because the cats were fully grown now. I found a black cat cowering behind his water bowl, thinking he was hiding. It was timid Tigger. The boys had been separated, probably for the first time in their lives. They had been there for three days and the barking and wailing of all these abandoned pets must have been traumatic. I said I would take them home. Not so fast. There was the little matter of the $25 a day boarding fee. So, $150 lighter in the wallet, I brought them home. They knew the car immediately and, when they came in the front door, they went right to the laundry room and hopped up on the dryer that had been their home for a year, and fell into an exhausted sleep. I called the Lafleurs back to retrieve the cat bed, carrying cage and other supplies that we had provided but they said they had given them away. We never did figure out their game. I called to advise the lady from the Friends of Abandoned Pets and she said that Mrs. Lafleur was well known for her habit of collecting cats and immediately abandoning them. She was on the black-list of all the pet agencies in Ottawa. They also advised me not to advertise free cats, A token charge will discourage the calls from people who are not serious pet-owners. The charge can always be waived.

So now the third re-homing exercise started. I went back to my list of candidates and decided that the best choice was Cathy Ivory, who had an eight-year-old son. They agreed to come over for a chat and I subjected them to about a half hour of home movies of the kitten's first year. She said "oh boy, baby pictures" and had tears in her eyes. The cats were all over her son, so it was a perfect match. Cathy kept in touch with us, even sending us Christmas pictures. We went to visit the boys and they were very well established with more cat toys and climbing stations than they ever had before. Porky was his usual polite self and greeted everyone in the room. He climbed up onto our laps and pressed his nose on ours. Tigger was also Tigger and he sat on his cat tower and kept his distance.

Later, Cathy and her extended family moved to a place in the country and we knew the boys were home for good.