Hip-Hop, You Don’t Stop

Let me tell you the story of Hip-Hop, the affectionate-kitten-turned-wild-street-cat that roams my neighborhood.

I first met Hip-Hop one Saturday evening while I was doing laundry. (Oops, I just revealed how boring my life is. Let’s get past that and move on, shall we?) So anyway, I was taking my sopping wet clothes out of the washer and chucking them into the dryer when I heard a sudden, persistent mewing coming from outside. My first panicky thought, of course, was that it was our adorable Toonces, and I briefly wondered where she was and if she’d somehow gotten outside. A few moments of concentrated listening, however, revealed that the cries were not hers, and that they sounded like those of a very young kitten. I popped my head outside and found the cutest, fuzziest little kitten stuck atop the fence that separates our duplex from the one next door. He’d climbed up and was unable to get back down.

Being too short to reach up and help the poor little guy myself, I called S to come to the rescue. S, animal lover and general softie that he is, was happy to oblige. He reached up and effortlessly plucked the cat from his perch, and the kitty immediately got comfortable in S’s arms and began purring. What a snuggly little creature! He seemed perfectly content to stay in S’s arms and let the two of us rub his head and chin. It reminded us of Toonces’s youth, when she’d purr for anybody at anytime and seemed to enjoy cuddling. (She’s since reached her surly, rebellious adolescent stage. Sigh.)

The kitten’s tag revealed his name was “Hip-Hop” and that he lived a block east of us. S called the owner, whose pleasant British accent I could hear through his cell phone, and the owner asked some general questions about Hip-Hop’s wellbeing and how far he’d strayed. She then said it was too late for her to come by and pick the kitten up, but that she’d swing by in the morning to get him. We thought that was sort of weird, but OK. (Once we set Hip-Hop back down on the ground, he’d likely go scampering off and end up who knows where, right?) The owner also casually threw in, at the end of the conversation, “I guess I should get him neutered at some point.”
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Um, yeah, lady. You should. It’s a little irresponsible to let your young male cat roam the neighborhood, free to impregnate any willing female cat who happens to cross his path. (We didn’t say that to her, though.)

So, that was that.

Since then, we’ve seen Hip-Hop a million and one times. I doubt his owner ever drove by to “pick him up.” Hip-Hop is always in our neighborhood stalking birds or making eyes at Toonces from the other side of Toonces’s favorite window. At first we’d see him outside and be like, “Oh! Hip-Hop, you cutie!” and pet him and fuss over him. But as more time goes by and he spends more and more time on the street and in other people’s yards, he grows dirtier and wilder and less affectionate. His formerly bright gold, fluffy coat is now dingy and grayish. And he’s forever pouncing on birds and eating them. He’s become very predatory. He also does crazy maneuvers like running up the sides of houses, which is of course quite dangerous.

The last time we saw him, he was scratching himself with fervor. He seemed totally incapable of stopping the scratching; I’m sure he’s got fleas. A couple of neighborhood kids and I were standing above Hip-Hop on the sidewalk watching him, and the one girl said, “I think his owners let him out for good,” which seemed like an astute prediction to me. If it’s true, I’m pissed. You don’t just bring home a kitten and then neglect him. That same afternoon, I tried to pet Hip-Hop, and he didn’t let me. He swiped at me with his paw and resumed scratching. He seems undomesticated at this point. It’s a shame.

I’m guessing Hip-Hop will ultimately meet his end in this very neighborhood. I’m guessing he’ll either be squished by a car or attacked by the large raccoons that come out after dark. (I’ve seen them twice now, on my evening walks. They scare the sh-t out of me.) I hope neither of these things happen, but I fear they’re likely. I wish Hip-Hop’s owner would take him back in, get him a bath and a flea dip, and have him neutered. I’m not the kind of person, however, who would tell a stranger what I think she should do.

But maybe I'm just being a coward?