Here’s Sparky’s real mugshot from the tag that was attached to his cage at the pound.
Have you ever seen a more pathetic looking kitty?
We are working on a new routine at my house: Sparky is indoors unless I am home to fetch him immediately should he disturb any neighbors. This also means no open window at night, so he can’t go make any stealth deposits in anyone’s yard. (It took less than forty-eight hours after his bailout for a recidivistic lapse and an angry call from Mr. Down-the-street.)
Sparky says that while he’s grateful I busted him out of the big house, this conditional parole is really cramping his style. We do OK for the first part of the night, but round about two a.m. he starts up with the chirping, which moves on to a desperate clambering onto window screens, at which point he gets sent to solitary (aka the bathroom) until morning.
I’m a bit sleep-deprived at the moment—but, really, things could be worse. He settles down quietly once he’s in the bathroom. And when he’s not in solitary, he’s cuddly and companionable. I am hoping that over time he will adjust to this new version of normal and become a true house cat.
Carol at The Golden Fleece gifted him with an absolutely lovely wad of stinky, greasy fleece, which has eased his suffering considerably. (He’s convinced he’s slain an entire sheep—the blood-thirsty, rapacious kind that likes to impale kittens on its horns—and is quite chuffed.)