What One Cat Taught Me About Listening

I’ve had several days to think about what happened with Finny.

When something goes wrong while you’re caring for someone’s pet, it’s pretty easy to immediately start replaying everything in your head.

I should have noticed that sooner.

I should have said something.

I should have trusted my gut.

I should have done this differently.

I did a lot of that.

And honestly, looking back, I think I probably could have recognized that Finny was struggling sooner. I believe he had started showing signs of stress a couple of trips before the incident trip. He was less social and he hissed at me a couple times. At the time, I didn't think much of it. Cats hiss for lots of reasons, and a hiss doesn't automatically mean a cat is about to attack.

But it was information.

I should have communicated those little signs of stress to his owners sooner. They should have known what I was seeing, and we could have talked through what might help him before things escalated. As it was, I communicated his most recent signs of stress as soon as he showed them, but it escalated very quickly, and the owner wasn't as concerned as I was and didn't respond to my message before the visit where the bite/scratching happened.

That's the part I keep coming back to.

Pet care is a partnership between the pet sitter, the pet, and the pet's people. Communication matters, especially when something feels small.

Because sometimes "small" is the warning.

I think Finny felt trapped.

After thinking about the situation, I believe Finny may have felt like he was being held hostage while his people were gone.

His owners closed him to one room without any toys or TV/music playing. His routine had changed. His people weren't there. I was the person who showed up when they weren't there, and something about the situation was clearly becoming stressful for him. I think he felt I was the one holding him hostage.

I also believe his attack came from frustration rather than some desire to be aggressive.

He seemed to expect that I would feed him the way I normally did, and when that wasn't happening the way he expected because the owner had suggested feeding him at the end of the visit instead of the beginning. He became increasingly frustrated. He couldn't understand why his routine had changed, and I couldn't explain it to him in a way that made sense to him.

Then he reached his limit.

And unfortunately, I was the one standing there when he did.

I don't know if I could have prevented the attack completely. I can't know that now.

But I do know what I can do differently going forward.

I will communicate sooner.

If I see a pet becoming less social than usual, hiding more, hissing, avoiding me, acting unusually tense, or showing other signs that something isn't quite right, I'm going to talk to the owner about it.

Even if I think it's minor.

Especially if I think it's minor.

Because addressing something early may give us an opportunity to change the plan before the animal becomes overwhelmed.

You cannot force a cat.

One of the biggest things my experience with cats has taught me is that you cannot force a cat to trust you.

You have to negotiate.

Sometimes that negotiation takes five minutes.

Sometimes it takes an entire visit.

Sometimes it takes several visits.

And sometimes it takes much longer.

I've seen this repeatedly with my clients.

One of my longtime kitty clients, Parker, has been with me for almost as long as I've been pet sitting full-time. I advocated for his owner to book longer visits because I knew Parker needed more time to feel comfortable with me in his home.

Eventually, he came out while I was there.

Then he did something even more exciting.

He ate while I was there.

That may not sound like a major milestone to someone who doesn't live in the world of cautious cats, but I knew exactly what it meant.

He felt safe enough to be vulnerable in my presence.

That's a big deal.

Cats can find it incredibly stressful when a new person suddenly enters their home. Their entire environment smells different. Their people are gone. Their normal routine may be different. And then there's this strange human walking around their territory, expecting them to interact.

Giving them more time can make a tremendous difference.

Medication adds another layer.

Medication can make an already stressful situation even more complicated.

I have another cat client who has started associating me with medication and with her owners being gone. I advocated for giving us more time because I don't think either of us benefits from watching the clock and feeling like we have to accomplish a specific task within a specific window.

If something is supposed to take 40 minutes but we're still negotiating two hours later, neither of us is having a particularly pleasant experience.

The cat is stressed.

I'm stressed.

And suddenly something that should be about caring for an animal becomes a battle.

I don't want that.

I want the cat to trust me.

I want medication to happen with as little stress as possible.

And sometimes the best thing I can do is slow down, give the cat more time, change the approach, offer a reward, wait, try again and negotiate.

You cannot force a cat.

You have to build cooperation.

And sometimes the smallest victories mean the most.

One of the things that made me feel better in the days after my experience with Finny was seeing some of the other relationships I've built with cats.

Recently, I had an outdoor cat who had been very shy around me finally come close enough to let me pet them.

This is a cat who lives outside and is fed by my clients. Feeding the outdoor cats is one of my responsibilities while I'm caring for their indoor cat.

For months, I have been doing the same things.

Feeding them.

Offering treats and catnip.

Talking softly.

Not making sudden movements.

Giving them space.

Waiting.

I never tried to force an interaction.

Yesterday morning, that patience finally paid off.

The cat came up to me and let me pet them.

And honestly, it was incredibly humbling.

There is something special about having a cat who was previously afraid of you decide, on their own, that you're safe.

I don't take those moments for granted.

This is why reading body language matters.

I've cared for a lot of animals over the years, and every animal teaches me something.

Cats especially have a language that can be incredibly subtle.

A change in posture.

A tail flick.

A flattened ear.

A longer retreat.

A refusal to eat while I'm there.

A hiss.

A cat who suddenly stops coming out.

None of these things should automatically be treated as a crisis.

But they're communication.

And my job is to listen.

The Finny incident reminded me that I need to listen even more carefully and communicate what I'm seeing even sooner.

I can't change what happened.

Should have. Could have. Would have.

Those words don't change the past.

What matters is what I take from it.

I don't want to become afraid of working with cats because one interaction went badly. If anything, the experience has made me more committed to paying attention to the small things that happen before the big things.

I will keep advocating for longer visits when a cat needs more time.

I will keep slowing down when a cat needs me to slow down.

I will keep negotiating instead of forcing.

And I will communicate with owners when I see signs that something isn't working.

Because sometimes the most important part of caring for an animal isn't getting them to do what you came there to do.

Sometimes it's making them feel safe enough to let you help them.

And when a shy cat finally walks up, eats in your presence, takes a treat, accepts medication, or lets you scratch their head for the first time, those moments are little reminders that patience isn't doing nothing.

Patience is part of the skill.