How I Got My FoFelines: A Tribute to Leslie

Leslie Johnson ... obituary here

In Tulsa animal welfare circles, a woman who rescued cats from the City Animal Shelter and rehomed them via her Friends of Felines (FoF) organization was often named. An article in the Tulsa World hailed Leslie as the Florence Nightingale of cats. Perhaps she would be a deserving candidate for a humanitarian award that Lynne Murtha and I were to launch in April 1991. So I set out to meet Leslie Johnson at a benefit pet fair where she was showing some of her wards.

Barely introduced I sensed she was ill at ease. Exchanging the usual pleasantries, suddenly, “Forgive me,” she interrupted, “I don’t mean to be rude, but these kitties are being stressed by the noise and the public, and I’m getting them out of here.” Her commitment to animals confirmed, a few weeks later Leslie and her then partner in rescue, Elaine Lee, received The Proubasta-Ruiz Award of the Action Front for Animals, “For Extraordinary Service to Fellow Beings.” And so our friendship began.

There were dinners with other friends of animals and abundant wine, garage sales, dog dips at the Jenks feed store, adoption tables at cat shows, and other fundraisers which were a hoot while benefitting felines. To me, however, there were life changing consequences to this friendship.

In the pre-Leslie halcyon days, when my household consisted of a mere three dogs, three cats, and myself, I expected that Nature’s course would eventually trim this family into an ideal two of each and, for their sake, still one of me. Friends of Felines or, rather, its relentless founder and Presidenta, would indefinitely postpone my plan.

Leslie’s campaign to make me adopt a cat with a flawed personality began shortly after the awards ceremony.  Leslie admitted that Randy wasn’t easy to like and I asked why then would I bring her into my life? To which Leslie, in the soft tones one speaks to a child with learning disabilities, replied, “Because nobody else will take her.” And before I could defend my interests, she forged ahead: “I’ll bring her by and you can take a look at her. If you don’t like her, that’s all right...” Leslie got my number quickly and knew I wouldn’t turn down a hopeless creature.

Esmeralda

Friday, 10 May 1991, at the atomically exact time we had agreed, Leslie delivered “the creature.” Nothing could have prepared me for the blood curdling growl she emitted still inside the pet carrier.  Esmeralda, as I had decided to call her (Blog bio 10 June 2012), appeared to be possessed, and so I said. “She is stressed” explained Leslie smiling.

Esmeralda’s eerie vocalizations scattered the resident dogs and cats into deep hiding. It didn’t take long, however, to see that her histrionics were the survival kit of a shy and sensitive personality. Later that day, gathering courage, I picked her up  and to my surprise she let me ... and she began to purr. This was to be our ritual: She acted menacingly seeking attention; we enjoyed it. Only one year later, on a Fourth of July weekend, suddenly her liver and kidneys failed,  quickly going  from normal to comatose before the veterinarian could be found, and she died.  Much too soon.

Pomponia

By then, on 17 February 1992,  I had adopted yet another FoF cat (suckah!) which Leslie promoted not only as “a celebrity” because her photo had been in the paper -- big deal -- but as the sweetest, smartest cat alive. Dared I ask why then Pomponia (Blog bio 15 May 2008) had been returned by three adopters? Leslie must have given me the schmalz at which she excelled and I said “yes” to an overweight  dominatrix who sat on my right forearm whenever I tried to use the keyboard, brushed her tail over my  food,  and plopped her obese self on any visitor who disliked cats.  Any attempt to correct her behavior was met with a bite, which explained to my satisfaction why no one would keep her.

On 3 June 1992 I was readying my garage for a FoF fund-raising sale. Leslie pulled into the driveway with a load of stuff.  Her countenance rivaled with Mary’s at the foot of the cross. Why? Because one of her rescues had tested positive for feline leukemia and had been euthanized that morning. Silently we proceeded to unload when I noticed a cat carrier behind a large box. A pair of over-dialated eyes were staring at me and I had en epiphany: Nothing would cheer Leslie more than finding a good home for one of her cats. “Oh no, no!” she pleaded with feigned sincerity, “You have enough cats?” (Notice the questionmark.) Her spirits were lifting, as I had anticipated. And then the ritual, “Well... but only on a trial basis,” knowing full well that some of us wouldn’t return a pet if s/he set the house on fire.

Mimosa

In the kitchen we open the carrier.  Mimosa (Blog bio 30 April 2017) shot out like a calf in a rodeo, diving into the basement where she established residence under the wine rack. Fow a whole week I brought her her food there and and talked to her several times a day to win her trust and also to get a glimse at her!  One day, just like that, her cobby black and white self surfaced in the living room where she, much to my delight, jumped on the newly reupholstered couch and, to my dismay, peed on it.

As her tentative approaches became frequent it was clear that her appetite for attention rivaled only with that for food. She gained too much wight and insisted on sleeping back to back with me. Other cats came and went on the bed at their own peril, and fights –not infrequent—always climaxed on my belly. (What was that lonely cat-in-a-carrier doing among garage-sale boxes, I wondered.)

Pandora

Leslie wasn’t through with me. The greatest challenge was to come 24 November 1992 in  the feline persona of  Pandora (Blog bio 20 May 2017).  How else does one name a creature who poses as a cat but is omniscient, omnipresent and as for omnipotent, I expected her to address me in English any day. She had long been a ward  of FoF because she seizured when confined in a carrier. Apparently potential adopters had never heard of mobile veterinarians who do house calls.

Proving that people are the animal most likely to make the same mistake four times, I asked for details about the cat then called Madeleine. And so, on the eve of Thanksgiving 1992, a dark and stormy evening,  Leslie and I met at the SEG parking as in some illicit swap. Under torrential rain, Leslie exited her van muttering “God dammit, I wonder what it must be like to be Normal!” and transferred a sedated Pandora into my Volvo. I drove home as fast as conditions permitted before the tranquilizer wore off, laughing all the way at Leslie’s existential query.

Among the myriad excentricities of this cat was that she would not eat canned food out of her own saucer; instead she swatted food out of the other cats’ portions and eat what landed on the (white) kitchen counter. Because the other cats objected vehemently, breakfast was messy and contentious. On the other hand, I joined the ranks of the privileged who have their veterinarian, the long-suffering Dr. Thomas McCoy, make house calls for Pandora’s needs, until her much lamented death, 22 February 2004.

Perla

There were two more FoF adoptions for which Leslie is not entirely responsible. I was helping set up FoF cages at the 1993 Tulsa Cat Show, and there she was, the spitting show-white image of  LaPrecious (Blog bio 12 March 2017) my first cat, who had died five months earlier.  Perla (Blog bio 24 September 2011) looked at me calmly from the farthest corner of her cage. Somehow I resisted the temptation of hanging the “Adopted” tag from her cage right then.

Doing my duty, I even did my best to convince a pleasant mature couple from Argentina to adopt her. When my shift was over I left her in her cage and cried all the way home. Leslie called three days later to complete the forms necessary for her adoption: The couple had passed Leslie’s CIA-level qualification checks and they couldn’t wait to take Pearl to Buenos Aires. All that was needed was my approval as initial interviewer ... she said.

What cunning, that Leslie! “Tell them that someone beat them to it and bring her home.” Then I popped a bottle of Spanish cava in the freezer; chilled to perfection in time for Leslie and Perla’s arrival. “What took you so long,” thought the cat audibly.

Sultana

Finally, in March of 2001, my irresistible boyfriend, Christopher Liner, made an odd request: His daughter Samantha was coming to Tulsa for a visit and could he borrow one of my cats to keep her company? One of MY cats!? But being unable to deny anything to him, I called Leslie and explained. Without any objection at “loaning” a cat, she volunteered Shadow, a shy 6-year old black cat. Predictably, the cat remained in hiding under a bed for the duration of Sam’s visit, and then she came to live with me, just as Leslie thought she would. I renamed her Sultana (Blog bio, 13 May 2012 and 8 May 2008).

Leslie was a defining influence on those of us who knew her. She lived on the strength of her convictions.  Born to save cats and not a few dogs, at that she never wavered. With people she was mercurial – vulnerable or haughty, charming or sarcastic, friendly or not ... it varied. She was a lone fighter in health and in sickness, and it was my privilege and a source of inspiration to know someone who even undergoing debilitating chemotherapy, would not fail to deliver food to cats living by a dumpster, set traps, take those caught to the veterinarian,  all in a blizzard and alone.  Words really fail to describe Leslie; like a cat, she had to be experienced.