When left to live with my father and I had to leave PJ behind I worried about her every day. My stepmother had bizarre standards for behaviour and punishments. She would chase the cat screaming and shaking plastic bags at her because she thought it was funny. If she thought PJ was shedding too much or misbehaving she would turn on the vacuum and intentional frighten her often chasing PJ into one of her hidey holes. My greatest concern though was the men she brought over.
My stepmother was not a discerning person. If you said you were Christian and appeared interested in her that was as good as a free ticket to ride. I know less about what went on with the men and PJ but when I got her back PJ’s absolute terror towards unknown men meant something undeniably bad. Eventually, my stepmother grew bored and annoyed with PJ. She claimed there was something wrong with her, she was always hiding and running away and her legs were too short. We instantly told her we would take her.
Huddled and hidden
When I walked back into the house there was no cat to be found. PJ was of course in hiding. I headed downstairs to her favourite hidey hole and called for her. I was greeted with one of PJ’s signature bright sharp “merfs!” and a little black head poking out of the hidey hole. With minimal coaxing, I got her out of the hole and she clung to me purring mewling. I just held her and stroked her head until she relaxed then gently placed her in our cat crate.
She was safe and she was coming with me. It would take years to rehabilitate PJ back towards the open and loving kitten she was but we had the time and PJ was the ultimate survivor. I’ll save that for another day.