Janice says Cat Haven is not like other shelters. She has volunteered at half the animal places in New Jersey, like a monarch gracing each colony and protectorate. Janice has nothing against other shelters, but Cat Haven is where she stayed, because everyone is strange and nobody dies.

Well, that’s not true. Janice knows that they all die. They may die on someone’s paisley chair or right here, with staff and volunteers sniveling like Muppets into their stripes.  

But nobody dies at Cat Haven on account of
inconvenient aging, or cost, or foolishness.

Did you know that a woman once brought her cat to the county shelter because she redid her living room? The new couches were champagne twill, very elegant, Flexsteel. But now the red cat looked gaudy. That’s what she said, “red” and “gaudy.” The cat was not even orange. The cat was as buttery as aglio e olio. He did not seem sad about leaving her very elegant living room for the shelter. Janice could say a lot about that woman, but she won’t.

Janice came in for a tour of Cat Haven seven years ago, and she apologized before she told me her name. She was still in her Flashdance clothes. Janice teaches Zumba to seniors. When they whine or blob around like Jabba the Hutt, Janice reminds them that she is the oldest person in the room. That’s why Janice wears Flashdance clothes. It is important that people know they can wear leggings covered in solar systems after eighty. It is not just fun, she says, it is important.

I told Janice you can wear anything you like at Cat Haven, because we welcome oddballs. We have vegans and pagans and two old men named Lyle, one of whom introduces himself as “Other Lyle” to ensure there is no confusion. Word is out at the high school: If you are too different for even the band kids, Cat Haven will take you in. Everyone is strange everywhere, but we are bad at keeping it hidden here. We are good at keeping cats, even if it has been thirteen years and they still won’t let anyone pet them yet. They have time.

Trusting human hands is a long-term project.

Janice asked what I do at the shelter. I told her the truth. I have been here seventeen years, and no one has figured out why. My W-2 says I am the Development Director,  but mostly I sit on the floor and cry with people. 

Did I go to school for fundraising? No, I thought I was going to be a chaplain, so I got a brazen degree called Master of Divinity. But now I bumble around a cathedral where matins and vespers are morning and evening injections for diabetic cats, twelve hours apart, a world without end.

God is hilarious.

Janice knows that. She got four diabetic cats out of shelters before it was too late. Insulin is the sixth most expensive liquid on earth. It is unconscionable. But that’s what got them to Janice. Janice can tell you her cats’ names in alphabetical order, all nine. For years she gave them all French names, Maurice and Fromage and Ganache and Penuche, but sometimes you meet someone who’s gotta be Biff. You know?

About once a year, she says we should name a yellow cat Gouda. I have to tell her that we have already done so, repeatedly. But the Goudas get adopted so fast, I understand why she forgets.

Janice tells me that we should have more catered affairs at Cat Haven. I remind her that it is a good day when I convince the executive director to wear pants with no holes. Janice says we are more sophisticated than we think we are. 

When we had that one open house in 2014, Janice wore a dress with sequins the size of eyeballs, and a feather in her hair. I told her she would make Robert Redford weak in the knees. She snickered and said that man is one big yellow cat who would match all her sofas. Even when Janice shows up in nebula pants, I tell her she is one of the most beautiful women who hath trod the earth. She tells me I am pretty enough for shorter hair and I should hide less.

If you email Janice, use the address with Jack’s last name. Janice has buried three husbands. It’s a shame, but men don’t take care of themselves the way they should. Janice liked having the last name Vogliobene, though she is as Italian as a pierogi. For three years she had a last name that means “I wish you well.” Jack had litter box duty and sang Always on My Mind to the ferals while Janice kibbled them. Jack was good. 

Do I ever put myself out there? I have to tell her that I’ve already done so, repeatedly. But I sprint through the cat door so fast, I understand why she forgets.