Mocha came home vaccinated, de-parasited, neutered and still slightly dopey from his day at the clinic. We moved him directly into the laundry room, with the decision to go for one major transition rather than a series of small upsets. If our little sewer rat was going to convert life as a happy house cat, let it start with a litter box in the laundry room. Right now.

All in all, his conversion progressed smoothly and steadily. His only litter box transgression came within the first week, and was, I strongly suspect, the result of a miscalculated attempt at a high jump over the baby gate separating him from his humble abode.

My only disappointment was an apparent transfer of loyalty when the little chocolate feline chose George as his new best friend, but as time progressed I came to believe that Mocha understood who he needed to win over, and who he’d already won. Smart kitty.

He uses his scratching post, though I still cringe and keep a close watch when he jumps on the leather couch. An indoor cat with claws is a very scary thing.

The catnip mouse brought on a serious bout of paranoia, so with the thought that it might not mix with his post-neuter painkiller, I put him through a few days of detox. But even a drug-free Mocha turned a little too maniacal when exposed to the weed, so he’s now content with shoelaces, ping pong balls, the glass beads in the bowl on the coffee table, the cloth covering the little table on the landing, and the strings that control the dining room blinds. Now that he’s comfortable roaming around on all levels, the house has become a giant kitty amusement park.

The Final Frontier, yet to be completely conquered is the greyhound. Though outweighed by a good 75 pounds, Mocha established his role as the Boss of Boone immediately and without room for negotiation. Boone agreed to the terms and has been nothing but accommodating (except for one brief reactive moment for which he was immediately and eternally regretful) even going so far as to refuse to join everyone downstairs for movie night, allowing Mocha full, free access.

They now share space pretty comfortably, and though Mocha will still arch and hiss at Boone should the dog have the audacity to lift his head while the cat sniffs his feet, he no longer runs in terror, but merely returns to his investigation when Boone lays his head back down in defeat or disinterest.

I think the Kwik Trip Kitten is on his way to King of the Castle.

What a difference a day makes.

After just over 24 hours in captivity, the snarling Siamese was purring, rolling on it’s back so I could scratch its tummy, butting its head against my forehead and weaving through my legs. The breakthrough came after 30 minutes of me on a 3-legged stool in front of the crate, rambling nonstop (and some may say nonsensically, had they been around to witness) about the benefits of being in my tack room rather than in a convenience store parking lot.

Maybe it was the security of a warm crate, complete with personal litter box and a unlimited supply of fresh water and food. Maybe it was the serenity of my soothing voice and kind words. Or maybe it was a burning desire to stop my incessant prattle, but in any case, we turned the corner of trust.

And “she” turned out to be “he”.

His fate remained undecided right up until two hours before his appointment for surrender at the humane society. Surely, he would find a happy home at the shelter. But he trusted me, the crazy cat woman who spent an inordinate amount of time risking road rash and reputation on the Kwik Trip sidewalk. And he was warming to George, who claimed no particular attachment, yet named the little feline foundling within days of capture.

So 10 days after that trap door closed on the stray cat strut, he is at the vet’s office, being vaccinated, de-wormed and neutered. The ultimate trust-tester.

Meet Mocha, the newest animal addition to Four Sticks Farm.

In my tack room, in a makeshift litter box in a medium size dog crate, is a very angry Siamese kitten. The Kwik Trip Kitten is safe from the dangers of the streets of Monticello, though she isn’t buying it yet.

On this, the tenth day of my cat catching adventure, George and I stopped to check the trap on our way home. While we walked across the parking lot, she walked up the sidewalk for a little early dinner, and a young couple watched from their car, parked in front of the trap.

We all froze momentarily, each calculating the others’ motives and the odds of success for advance versus retreat. Then we all converged on the sidewalk as the Siamese, apparently more adept at doing math in her head than the rest of us, scrapped her dinner plans and headed for the sewer grate. It was a slow motion version of the climactic bust scene at the end of any cop show drama, except that we didn’t get our man. Or our kitten.

But maybe she’s developed an insatiable appetite for Supreme Supper, because within 30 minutes of our arrival home, I got a call from the night shift – the kitten was in the trap. So my one and only Black Friday purchase was a bag of natural clay cat litter – and I was lucky enough to get one of the last 3 bags on the pallet.

Until now I haven’t thought too much about what happens after we catch this kitty. I guess it depends on whether she decides to trust or not to trust. Or how long I can stand the smell of canned cat food in my tack room.

She’s seal-point in color, rather than the blue-point I thought I saw in the dark parking lot 10 days ago, and a tiny bit bigger than I thought in the original 3 second sighting, but very pretty. Even when she’s mad.

Kwafty kitten.

Day 5 dawned with an empty live trap that showed signs of a visitor who has learned how to get the goods and get out. So tonight I’ll experiment with a slight change in the trap’s position on the sidewalk – angled against the garbage can to deter the dine-and-dash strategy.

George thinks the behavior is more indicative of a raccoon than a cat, a belief harbored by a few other of the eternal pessimists in my life.

And maybe they’re right. Maybe my two-a-day visits will reveal that the only animal I’m fattening up for the frigid winter ahead is indeed a raccoon. Or a possum. Or a rat, a squirrel or some other undesirable, undomesticated wildlife.

But maybe it is the little blue-point Siamese. And maybe her eventual capture will end happily for all of us – her, me and the young convenience store employee who will once again be able to look me in the eye and greet me with a smile because I’ve stopped crawling around on the sidewalk. In the snow.

And maybe, George will make sure that “MILK” and “BREAD” are highlighted in big letters the next time he makes a grocery list.

Because George forgot bread and milk when he picked up groceries, I stopped at Kwik Trip instead of going directly home from yoga. And because I was only getting groceries, I parked in front of the store instead of at the gas pump. And because I chose the corner spot for the F150, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the Kwik Trip Kitten.

She spotted me first and was already headed into the sidewalk storm sewer drain. But I saw enough to leave an impression that would haunt me all night. A baby out alone in the cold, fending for herself, cars coming and going in the parking lot and the highway it sits on.

Let the rescue begin.

George stopped at the store in the morning, learned that the employees knew about the kitten and were leaving milk out for it. He told them his wife wanted to setup a live trap and bring the little feline to the humane society. Not sure where he got that last part, but first things first.

I set up the live trap, baited with a can of “Supreme Supper” (first big decision – what flavor would she like? – opted to go right to the top shelf) and left with great anticipation.

The next morning brought evidence that she approved of my menu selection, but the trap had not tripped. I took the can to work with me so it would warm up for Night 2, which saw her return, but yet another trap failure. And last night, one more.

Today I spent too much time kneeling on the Kwik Trip sidewalk during the season’s first snowstorm, trying to re-engineer the release mechanism, so eventually brought the trap home. Consultation with Dad and brother Pete revealed it was missing a key piece, but I was determined not to be outwitted by a simple system of metal wires, and able to improvise with a strategically placed rubber band. One more not-so-quick trip on slippery roads, and I’m back in the cat catching business.

Through this process I’ve met some very kind convenience store employees who care about this little kitten and one who avoids all eye contact. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a crazy old woman with 57 felines in my home.

It all starts with one…