Just hours before last winter’s worst cold snap, a little black kitten showed up at the bottom of the wheelchair ramp in front of our home. She was so afraid, she crawled back under the house, and her telltale mewling through the floorboards drove my wife and me nuts. Though she was cold and hungry, it took weeks to lure her indoors, and more weeks to begin building trust. Then one night while rolling my power wheelchair through a darkened hallway — “MRRR-EOW!” — I ran over her tail. And so, we were back to square one.  

Her name is Frances Ford Kookala. She’s a sweet cat who adapts her behavior quickly. Since our mishap, whenever I head in Kookala’s direction, her tail probably starts throbbing and she flees. Smart cat, but now she’s a cool cat too: Since I’m a quadriplegic from MS and cannot care for, play with or pet her either, her blanket avoidance of me gets frustrating. Aloofness is part of the cat brand, yeah, but the constant cold shoulder grows old. 

At the same time, the danger of backing over her is still there, and we’ve had a couple of near-misses. I’ve read conversations of cat owners who seem to agree that the best thing you can do to prevent a cat from getting run over with your chair is to run over the cat with your chair. But me and my power chair together are 605 pounds, and I don’t feel like playing chicken with a 9-pound cat. In fact, a New Mobility story by Tiffiny Carlson tells of Carlson’s friend who ran over a kitten fatally. Enough said. 

So, I asked other wheelchair users how they keep their small pets safe, and how they interact with and care for them too. 

A Cautionary Tail 

My story takes a back seat to what happened to Jerry Diaz when he took his iguana for a bicycle ride in the days before his spinal cord injury. “I got home and I saw some blood on the tiles. … I go down the street and I find a piece of tail, [which] got caught in one of the spokes,” says the 38-year-old welder from Kissimmee, Florida, who has a T10-11 SCI and uses a manual wheelchair. “He luckily grew it back and was fine. [I’m] more aware of things now. I don’t want to hurt any of my animals.”  

Diaz has kept reptiles as pets since age 12, both before and after sustaining his SCI 13 years ago. Currently there’s Banshee the mangrove monitor lizard, Hera the ball python and Grogu the tortoise. “[Reptiles’] personality is they are very to themselves. It’s kind of like me,” Diaz says. “They’re strong creatures. They are really independent. I’ve always … loved them.” 

Although they give him “little reminders of trust” — bite-sized reminders — what Diaz really fears is their getting loose. Reptiles can hide out for weeks. “I won’t be able to chase after them like I used to. … I’ll get on the ground, I’ll do whatever I can, but it’s the running away part,” he says. “Those things are freaking fast.”  

But Diaz says as long as you can care for them properly, nothing should stop a wheelchair user from keeping reptiles. It helps to be inventive, though. Right now, Banshee resides in a repurposed IKEA entertainment set that Diaz snagged off Facebook Marketplace for $50. He added lighting and branches to transform it into a tropical rainforest. A previous Diaz build was so huge that he could go inside with his chair. “I made a space in the middle where I could go in there and clean up his house,” he says. “I was always changing things around to stimulate [my pet’s] mind.”  

Taking Safety in Hand 

After fostering almost 100 cats — many, medically complicated or near the end of life — as well as having dogs and a bearded dragon, it’s inevitable that United Spinal Association member Kyla Claussen, 40, of Benson, Illinois, has run over a paw with her power wheelchair. “It’s an unfortunate situation,” says Claussen, who has cerebral palsy. “Cats are independent creatures, and stubborn.” 

But for her, a greater danger lies out-of-doors. “Two years ago I was in my chair walking my dogs, and another dog came to attack my dogs,” she says. “I was suddenly pulled forward out of my chair and broke two fingers that needed to be surgically repaired.”  

If it happens again, she fears being unable to defend herself or her pets. “My hands shake and my grip isn’t the greatest,” she says. But she keeps at it, using a leash that features a partial glove that wraps around the hand and removes the need for grasping.  

They Know I’m Their Mama 

“I have accidentally run over a paw with every pet I’ve had since I got the wheelchair,” says lifelong pet owner Renee Lopez, 63, of Austin, Texas, who uses a power wheelchair because she was born with arthrogryposis multiplex congenita. “However, they learn quickly the clicking sound when [the wheelchair is] going to move, and believe me, they move out of the way!” Still, she’s learned to check around her chair before she goes anywhere.  

She has a few other simple suggestions for would-be wheelchair-using pet owners: Train your cat to jump up to a table for feeding so you don’t have to bend down; invest in a doggy door for easy outdoor access or maybe even bathroom independence; and spare yourself supply-shopping hassles by using Chewy.com or other delivery services.  

Like me, Lopez’s lack of hand function puts a damper on petting and playing with her kitten, Nacho, and dog, Molly. “But I have found that all the pets I’ve had have accommodated me. All my cats have jumped on my lap where I can pet them, and they’ve all slept with me where we can cuddle,” she says. “It’s interesting that even though the attendants feed them, they know I’m their mama.  

“Pets are much more intuitive than we give them credit for,” Lopez says. “They will love you and will figure out how to get close to you.” 

Sticking the Landing  

On my end, I took the lesson from Carlson’s article and purchased a collar bell for Kookala. It might be a touch too loud but, for now, is a definite improvement. That, and a strategically placed office mirror to see behind my wheelchair.  

I’ve also found some fun ways to hang out with the Kook despite my challenges of wheelchair and function. When she’s on her window perch, we trash-talk the birds in the clear plastic feeder on the other side of the glass. She loves when we scare off a squirrel, looking back at me with approval. To play, I’ve found a laser pointer that doesn’t require holding in a button, so I can hold and aim it with my mouth. I even walk her in a harness, hooking the leash to my wheelchair. (Patience Required: This isn’t potential cardio like with dogs. You walk your dog. You loiter your cat.) With my wife’s help, we’ve clicker-trained Kookala to climb on my lap and reward her with treats.  

Six months after Tailgate, I’ve made great progress bridging the trust gap. Kookala will jump up on my chair, with or without me there. She taps noses with me. And she nestles in my scooped-out armrests like a meatloaf in a pan. 

But still there was that missing piece of the puzzle — they’re called pets, right? It’s right there in the name: I want to pet my pet. At last, as I was writing this, with Kookala stretched out on her perch behind me, I had the eureka moment. It was my trusty mouthstick all along.  

In this era of remote devices, people scoff: Here we are, entering the age of the Jetsons, and I’m leaning back on the Flintstones. I’ve written about my mouthstick and it’s dazzling array of real-world applications that extends beyond keyboards. Now, witness its legend grow.  

I was hearing the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey as I began petting Kookala with the mouthstick … not exactly flesh on fur, but it completes the circuit. I admit I got a thrill, almost like a first kiss. I have to find a better contact point than the current rubber thimble, but this is going places. Once more, it’s mouthstick for the win. Yabba-dabba-doo!  

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