And what a rescued desert cat taught me about what "enrichment" actually means
I saved Cheeto Mac and Cheese from becoming bobcat food.
You'd think that would earn me some loyalty. And it has — just not the kind that keeps him indoors.
From the beginning, Cheeto has never fully let go of the idea of going back out there. Not in a sad way. In a mission way. The desert called him before I found him, and it's been calling him ever since. My job, it turns out, wasn't to domesticate that out of him. It was to figure out how to walk alongside it.
Which I now do. Literally.
But before we got there, there were a lot of sleepless nights.
When the toys stopped working
I did everything right. I read the articles. I watched the videos. I took Jackson Galaxy's advice on the nighttime routine — the play-before-bed sequence designed to simulate a hunt and wind cats down. And it worked. For other cats, probably. For Cheeto? Not so much.
The toys weren't the problem. Stimulation wasn't the problem. Enough stimulation was the problem — and for a cat who spent his early life reading the desert like a map, a feather wand at 9pm wasn't going to cut it.
When Cheeto doesn't get his walk, he makes sure I know it. He yowls at the door. He reorganizes whatever is sitting near it. He scratches at his TV — what we humans call the window — like he's filing a formal complaint with the outside world. And my mom, who watches him when I leave for a trail without him, says he cries then too.
Here's the thing though: I don't think it's separation anxiety. I've thought about this. Cheeto isn't crying because I'm gone. He's crying because I left on an adventure without him. There's a difference. He's not attached to my presence. He's attached to the idea of going. Being with me is not his goal — seeing new things is. I just happen to be the person with the harness.
That's not a knock on our bond. Our bond is real and it runs deep. But I'd rather see him clearly than project something soft onto him that isn't there.
Learning to wake up before he has to ask
I've been praying about this — not that Cheeto changes overnight, but that I'd learn to meet his needs before they turn into 5am yowling. This morning, God answered that prayer. Cheeto let me sleep. My body, it turns out, still needed convincing. The flesh is willing but weak, and I'm learning that grace covers both the yowling cat and the groggy woman who hits snooze on her own request.
If you've got a minute, I'd love your prayers — not that Cheeto changes overnight, but that we keep figuring this out together. One morning at a time.