Adopting a Ghost

Buried in a tunnel of fuzzy blankets, an anxious ghost sat next to me. 

Early into the pandemic, Safe Haven Humane Society received notice that they couldn’t have anyone — staff or visitors — indefinitely in the building. Since animals need constant care, this required them to contact everyone who signed up for foster care to find temporary placement for all animals in the building.

My mom and I had limited fostering experience, so we opted to take two adult cats. We had three cats of our own at the time, none of which appreciated visitors. To prevent fights or any of the cats becoming stressed, we isolated one of the shelter cats, Amber, in the guest room, and one, Casper, in the entry room.

Amber was an unusually friendly, petite calico. She loved being pet and made chuffing sounds whenever I held her in my lap. 

We tried to introduce her to the rest of the house since she was so agreeable, but she and our female Maine coon, Claire, started throwing punches on sight, so back into the guest room she went. 

In the entry room, Casper was a thin white cat who was one of four siblings from a failed breeding operation in California. He and his siblings were declawed and showed behavioral signs of severe mistreatment. 

All three of his siblings were classified as feral due to their reclusive nature and aggressive behaviors, including hissing, biting, and scratching. Casper was not. 

He had all the protective behaviors that characterize a very feral cat, hiding, only eating or using the litter box when no one was around, never seeking human contact, but showed no aggression whatsoever. With his adorably gentle nature, if we tried to pet or pick him up, he would only meow and try to get away to hide. 

We were told he spent all of his time hiding in a paper bag from Chili’s restaurant that they sent with his other supplies. Instead, he chose to cram himself into a two-inch gap under one of my mom’s massive 1990s Ikea cabinets that could rival the weight of my car. 

I don’t know how he managed to squeeze his little skull under there. Even if I had an object the same size, I did not think it physically possible to store it there. He had somehow made more room by depressing the carpet by force. 

Getting him out without hurting him took around 10 minutes, to which he complained loudly the entire time.

When we got him out, we quickly stuffed as many old jigsaw puzzle boxes as we could underneath. 

With his contortionist hiding spot removed, he hid in the corner behind an equally ancient office chair. Having completely lost interest in the Chili’s bag, we had to get him another place to feel safe.

In our garage, we had a large “pet taxi” carrier meant for long-distance travel that held multiple animals. We introduced it to the room and included an ample supply of blankets for him to hide within. 

He immediately ran inside and pressed against the back wall of the pet taxi under his nest of felt and linen. Casper had found his fort of solitude.

I tried to get him accustomed to human socialization by sitting in the room and waiting for him to come out, but to no avail. He wanted nothing to do with toys, treats, pets, and even food and water if anyone was in the room. 

After a week of daily trials and all errors, I had to try something he couldn’t ignore. 

I went to our linen closet and got three large blankets. Entering the room, I laid on the ground and crawled inside the pet taxi. 

On my stomach with about two-fifths of my body sticking out, I hid under blankets with him and pulled out my phone to watch “Buzzfeed Unsolved: True Crime” for the next three hours.

With my face less than two feet from him now, I initiated socialization by trying to pet him periodically. For the first 45 minutes he recoiled every time. Around when the first episode ended he started maintaining his position when I pet him. 

Over the next hour, he began to lean into it, getting used to the bonding experience. After watching the entirety of the show's season five compilation, he revealed something new.

He likes belly rubs! 

Instead of setting a trap of impending murder mittens like most cats, he preferred a position where most cats feel too vulnerable. Casper still only accepts pets for more than a few seconds if they come in the form of belly rubs. 

After this, he accepted me entering his hideout. Each day, I went in there and pet him for at least an hour. 

One week of socialization.

Amber was so friendly that there was no question she would be adopted, but I was worried Casper wouldn’t. He would be a challenging case of a non-engaging shelter cat for most pet owners without extensive experience with traumatized cats and general socialization skills. Even if new owners tried to do their own research, he’s not a typical feral case and wouldn’t respond to much traditional exposure therapy as expected.

The potential for owner dissatisfaction made him a very likely return candidate, which would only worsen his anxiety from all the transportation and unfamiliar environments. He wouldn’t have any time to adjust and feel safe. 

Even though staff were let back into the building two weeks after the formal lockdown started, adoptees weren't allowed in until the end of the first month, and even then, it was by one household appointment made through contacting the shelter about interest in animals on the website. No customers were browsing the kennels like they typically do, which wouldn’t change any time soon. 

After another week, I was sitting on the floor of Casper’s room with my mom when I told her my concerns. Seconds after I asked if we could keep him, Casper decided to exit the tent while my mom and I were in the room for the first time. At that moment, we immediately decided to keep him. 

It's safe to say that we failed at this particular fostering venture. We only returned one of the two cats we borrowed for two weeks.  

Even three years later, his belly rub prerogative persists.