Adopting from Ottawa Humane Society can be heartbreaking process!

A little over a week ago my wife and I lost our Mr. Patches to liver disease. What was a cute, cuddly, loving and active five year old cat got sick and tests revealed that nothing much could make him better.

Despite the fact that I had pronounced several times in recent years that there would never be a successor to Mr. Patches (I had expected that he'd be with us for at least a decade or longer as he was an "inside cat"), being at home alone over a long weekend without a four-legged creature wandering around for the first time in twenty years made me reconsider. I wanted a new friend, and I wanted a female kitten. My wife required that she be somewhere around three months old or younger.

I thought that I was embarking on a relatively simple task - after all, are we not regularly bombarded with pleas from the Humane Society asking us to adopt a cat or dog because there are so many that need new loving homes? These pleas seem to escalate after a puppy mill is discovered or some cat lady is indentified and her sixty kitties are impounded as it's not legal to own that many pets at once. Simple? Hardly!

On a Friday afternoon I did my research. I tracked down the Ottawa Humane Society website (http://www.ottawahumane.ca) and checked out the cats to be adopted. I found a darling little three-month-old kitten named Monroe. Her description indicated that he was currently at a big box pet shop in Barrhaven. Upon calling the pet store for more information I was informed that it would cost me $201 to "adopt" this kitten - and that if I did not bring a cat carrier with me I would be obligated to buy one before leaving with a cat.

It was a long weekend and I had to deal with the loss of Mr. Patches - emotionally and financially. Acquiring a kitten was effectively turned into a non-event after talking to the young man at the pet store as vet bills incurred over the past week made it impossible. So much for doing a favour for "cat humanity" - I couldn't afford it. My parents graciously offered to cover the costs later in the weekend and I then decided that first thing Tuesday morning (stores were closed on Monday for Thanksgiving) we'd head off to pick up little Monroe. Monroe was not there waiting for me - she found a home on Saturday. Mildly irritated and somewhat understanding, I left my parents behind as I headed back to the truck to wait for them. I did not want to spend one more second in that store.

"Off to the Humane Society" they chimed as they climbed in. My disappointment with missing out on Monroe was dissipating as I drove east to the Champagne Avenue offices. It was now 10:30am and just about any business was mid-way through its morning hours by then...

We arrived at the front door of the Humane Society to find that it was locked. I peered through the glass doors at the staff members I could see and I guess they looked at me the same way they likely do at others dozens of time each and every weekday. They buzzed me in and immediately told me that adoption hours only begin at 12:00 noon. On one hand it makes sense that they have 12-7 hours weekdays, permitting folks who work a 9-5 shift to drop in, but it would seem that they could extend them to 9:30am or 10am given the adoption fees the collect for each animal that goes through their doors. Anyhow, strike two.

So earlier I was mildly irritated and somewhat understanding. I was now pretty much fully irritated and not understanding at all. As a senior staff person at another charitable organization, I have had to work outside regular business hours on more than one occasion and have gone back into a closed up building when someone was attempting to gain access to the premises as I was driving out of the parking lot. No such luck. Rules are rules, I guess, but for the second time in less than an hour, my efforts to adopt a kitty cat were thwarted. We decided we'd have some breakfast and return at noon.

11:50am - we return to the Humane Society office and wait in the vehicle. I spy some others approaching so I decide that I would line up at the door - I wasn't going to lose my new desired kitty - a black and white shorthaired female with no name and the cutest black chin!! With a few people now waiting behind me I could have sworn that I could see "no name" in a cage near the door. Noon could not come fast enough. A staffer finally came to the door and unlocked it. When I showed her that I wanted "that cat" (I had printed out her information sheet) she told me she was not on the premises. What?! Strike three. It turns out she had been transported to another big box pet store on Innes Road at about 10:30 that morning -- right around the time we had arrived there the first time that day. It would have been nice if I could have spoken with someone about this before driving out there for the second time, but not only do they not allow people into the building until noon on weekdays, they don't answer the phone until noon either!!!!!!

Irked to no end, I remained polite and asked the female staffer if she could contact the pet store and inform them that I was on my way in 12 seconds and would be there as quickly as I could dodge the OPP on the eastbound 417. She curtly informed me that they could not hold the kitten for me because it was first-come, first-served. Seeing that this organization has no flexibility in it whatsoever, I figured that asking in thirty-seven different ways would be a pointless exercise. I did manage to get her to phone and ensure that the kitten was still there at that very moment. She was, so off we went again. If I were to come across strike four, I don't know what I would have done!!

Straining to respect speed limits (or to stay within 20km/h of them) and swearing at red lights as I weaved my way from Champagne Avenue to a Queensway on-ramp, I managed to get out to Innes Road in remarkably good time! If I had been in the movies, I would have asked my father to take the wheel of my SUV while I jumped out of the running vehicle but one casualty in the week was enough for my loved ones. I parked as quickly as I could and sauntered into the store. Fortunately for everyone involved, "no name" was there. After spending fifteen minutes signing forms and waivers and contracts, and after my father forked out $201 on my behalf, we were on the road with "Charlotte" (turns out she had a name but nobody bothered to put it on her web page).

All was well for two days and our over-active energetic kitty (now named Jersey!) was driving us nuts at bed time and I remarked to my wife on Thursday night that we'd have to enjoy the rather irritating "under the covers foot chasing and hand biting while we sleep" while we could, knowing that Jersey would not be a baby-like kitten for too long. Boy, did that ever turn out to be a foreshadowing moment.

This is where the story takes another bad turn but also this is where the Humane Society gets put into a positive light.

I got an e-mail from my wife while I was at work on Friday morning. She cautioned me that I would have to monitor the little kitty that evening, for her rather over-active energy that never quits had literally disappeared. Jersey was apparently reduced to a black and white blob that didn't want to do much of anything. Because Mr. Patches suddenly exhibited some similar symptoms, she was sort of panicking. I quietly was panicking as well, for I was affected quite a bit by Mr. Patches' passing and was on the verge of depression if I were to lose this new kitty too. While I pride myself on holding a rather even keel, even under dire circumstances, I did not know of any other way to react... so I called the emergency contact number at the Humane Society as they say we should within 48 hours of adopting a new animal. We were closer to 72, but I didn't care. Sure, my wife had spoken with them an hour earlier, but she didn't get answers. She didn't get anything... and the "technician" advised me to bring Jersey in so they could check her out.

Within 45 minutes I was reached and informed that Jersey was developping an "upper respiratory infection" - a cold, in other words - and would be medicated on-site. I could pick her up that afternoon. Upon arriving at the offices for the third time in three days, I met the doctor who informed me that her viral infection (that is "covered" by the Humane Society for all adopted animals are guaranteed to be free of viral problems within seven days of adoption - enough time for anything to show... this time it did in three days...) was serious enough but the medication they gave me would see her through the trying times. Other than that, she was as solid as a... very healthy kitten, I guess! No charge. Kudos to the Humane Society - they remained true to their word in the contract I had signed only three days earlier.

So here I am on a Sunday night... Jersey has gone from a little tasmanian devil to being sloth-like to being a kitten bothered by constant hacking and laboured breathing. My little kitty is still far from being out of the woods, but the hacking and coughing seems to be on the verge of disappearing for good. I am hoping that by mid-week she'll be good as new and running all over the place, causing me to fear for my life at bed time as she pounces on my unsuspecting feet under the duvet.

In the meantime, I have to nurse her back to health. It's tough enough on me, a thirty-one year old who knows better and understand how the world operates. I can't help but wonder how a little girl who has a nice enough mother to driver her all over town to get a little kitty only to have to make three of four disappointing stops before finding one, only to inexplicably have it get sick three days after coming home. That little girl wouldn't be able to understand why so many bad things tarnished the otherwise positive experience for all involved.

It is my hope that my experience is more an exception rather than a rule. Somehow with the archaic rules and procedures it seems that one must follow to adopt a specific animal, forcing a prospective adoptor to jump through more hoops than a trapeze artist before hitting pay dirt, I doubt it. I may also be wrong. Here's hoping I am. Get well, Jersey!! More on that in the days to come.