My best friend was right—it was an idiotic idea.

“Are you thinking this will be fun?” she asked. “Why on earth would you take a cat camping with you?”

Why indeed. Maybe it’s because my husband Garth and I figured that if we love to camp, and our golden retriever Mia loves to camp, then the newest member of our family might enjoy camping too.

I need to tell you, though, that up until five month ago, I had never owned a cat, lived with a cat or had the slightest desire to do either. I’m a true-blue dog person, and always assumed you were either one or the other: pro-cat or pro-dog.

Jack is sort of a dog-like cat and gets along famously with Mia, who tends to be a bit cat-like herself, with occasional demonstrations of aloofness, fur licking and independence.  

Jack is a resilient little gray and white American Shorthair who has adapted quickly to living in a new household. He was previously an indoor/outdoor cat. However, due to my paranoia about coyotes, hawks, cars and all else evil, I have kept him indoors with free access to our two, safe, upper-level decks. But I feel bad, like I’m denying him an American freedom.

So I bought him a cat harness (after much internet research) with a bungee leash, and we began the incremental task of familiarizing him with whole concept, all the while assuring him that it would be worth it, he’d see.

After a few weeks of harness training and couple sojourns to a local park, we were ready to go camping. I checked back with my cat instructor (the internet) for a primer on camping with cats.  There were mixed postings, but I felt confident that we had thought of every contingency: litter box location in the motorhome, tie-up cords to clip him in when we went in and out, where he would sleep (he’s a cat—he sleeps where he wants!), cat carrier if things went south, toys, food, dishes—I felt like I was traveling with a toddler.

The night before we left, we introduced Jack to our cozy 24’ motorhome. He slunk around, checking out every corner and cupboard, looking out each window, until his curiosity was sated. We were quite pleased with ourselves for being good cat parents, for going slowly and kindly in his introduction to this new adventure. We were ready to go.

The next morning, we finished loading the food, dog and cat beds, etc., and I went to look for the cat. I found him sleeping soundly in the sun on the deck, and I quietly slipped his harness on him. He was warm and calm in my arms as I carried him to the front door. He became more agitated the closer I got, and let out several plaintive meows. Once in the motorhome, though, he repeated his inspection of every surface and nook, finally settling on our bed.

We don’t allow him on our bed at home, to keep the cat hair off our blankets and pillows.  But we knew, in the tight quarters of the motorhome, that there was no way to keep him off the bed.  We hoped that, once we were back home, he could make the distinction—camping, yes—home, no.

So this is when we made our first major mistake. We were all set: dog lying between us on the floor of the cab, cat on the bed in back, all the doors, vents, windows, cabinets closed:  woo hoo!  Let’s go camping!

As soon as we started the engine and began to back out of the driveway, Jack let out a yowl that sounded like he’d swallowed a tennis ball. We looked at each other, and I said: “I think he’s okay.  He’ll get used to the movement.  Mia did after her first motorhome trip.”

We drove down the hill, and a cabinet door in back banged open.  We pulled over. This sort of thing happens often, and we’re used to stopping to secure something during the first shakedown of a trip. 

Garth went to the back to shut the cabinet and let out an uncharacteristic stream of expletives.

“I think the @#! cat peed. Oh, %#@! He’s peeing everywhere.”

I turned around and saw Garth kneeling on the bed, holding Jack by the armpits with his back legs hanging straight down.

Yes, in fact, he had urinated—that lovely male cat pee—all over our bedspread and our pillows.

Observation #1: Unlike a dog, a cat will not go to the bathroom on command before a road trip.

Proverb #1: Cat awakened from sleep on warm deck will most likely need to pee.

Not to accept defeat, we drove back up the hill, stripped the bed and grabbed new pillows.  The piles of urine-soaked bedding on the laundry room floor simply meant just a few more loads of camp laundry when we returned.

It’s about this point in the story, where seasoned cat owners are thinking we should have left the poor guy at home.  But remember, we’re still newbie cat owners and we figured that at least he wouldn’t need to pee now. Besides, he’s an adventurous cat, and this was Kitty’s Great Adventure.

We regrouped back in the motorhome but this time, I held Jack on my lap with a bath towel underneath him.  Ordinarily his claws aren’t out, but I thought both he and I would be more comfortable with a little padding between us.

Holding him on my lap was the key. Had I just thought for one moment, I would have realized that the rocking in the back of the motorhome would make anyone want to pee.  I held him tight, minimizing the swaying and bumping, and reassuring him with scritches along his back.  Success!  Aside from meowing every 30 seconds (we timed them), he seemed content to watch the hills, trees and cars go by.

And this is when it happened: our second mistake.

Jack and I had become more relaxed, and he decided he wanted to put his paws up on my window. In doing so, he pushed the window control button and that window shot down like the escape hatch it was.  I grabbed his harness as he lurched forward toward the open window, and this time I nearly peed.

Observation #2: Keep your eye on all those little paws at all times if there is any way a cat can make mischief.

Proverb #2: Child lock-out windows will be on every single car you own until you actually need them in an Itasca Spirit motorhome.

The rest of the trip (47 minutes of twisting, turny Big Sur coastline) I kept a death grip on him and his harness. He was insistent on working that window again, and the bath towel on my lap was proving to be an insufficient shield between claws and thighs.

Still, miraculously, he seemed to be enjoying himself—somewhat anyway. His meowing became less angst-filled and more of a curious nature. He sat straight up, observing everything, much to the surprise and double-takes of other drivers unaccustomed to seeing a cat looking back at them. 

I risked loosening my grip, and felt his throat. There was a faint, silent vibration—that’s the way he purrs. Maybe this camping thing was going to be okay after all.

I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful to see the entrance to a campground. Luckily we had reservations, so we drove right to our site and parked. I let Jack off my lap and into the back of the motorhome.  He stood right by the back door—right where we needed to go in and out to set up camp.

We’d anticipated this, and we clipped his harness onto a cord attached to the drivers seat armrest.  We felt well-prepared and efficient, going about the tasks of removing surfboards, lounge chairs, tablecloth, camp stove, etc.

Jack decided to squirrel his way under the driver's seat and proceeded to get his harness caught on some metal bits underneath. 

Luckily, it was cat/dog dinner time, so I double-triple checked that the door was closed, and that Garth knew to knock for clearance when he came back in. Then I maneuvered into the cab and fished under the seat until I could release Jack’s harness. He’s not a hide-under-the-bed kind of cat, so I was banking on dinner being the draw that it proved to be.  He crawled out and ate side by side with Mia, as though we’d always lived in a motorhome.

I snuck outside to erect the elaborate exterior cat restraint system I’d seen on the internet: a cord tied from here to there with a carabineer clip that could slide along its length, attached to a cord that clips to the cat’s harness. It looked like a good way to let a cat run around camp safely. I was so worried about him coming out of his harness and bolting for the bushes—never to be seen by us again.

Garth finished putting water in our tank, and we were ready to bring out the cat!

Our third mistake: I assumed we could just clip on his leash, carry him outside, put him down, and he’d walk around camp enjoying himself. In reality, he was overwhelmed by the new outdoors, the smells, the sounds. He wanted to run under the motorhome.  I picked him up and held him for a bit, and then took him over to my wonderful cord-line setup.

When I put him on the ground to clip his leash into the system, he sprang toward the nearby bushes with a determination and strength beyond an eleven pound animal. I pulled on the leash.  He turned around backward, arched his back and managed to pull one front leg out of the harness.

Observation #3: Even a cat who has been prowling around outside for many years can feel exposed and intimidated by new territory.

Proverb #3: You can take a cat camping but you can’t make him have fun.

Observation #4: A cat may react in a completely opposite manner to a dog while on a leash.

Proverb #4: If you pull this way, cat will go that way.

I quickly swooped him up in my arms. Clearly Jack was uncomfortable outside, so we took him back into the motorhome and lay on the bed with him while I tightened his harness. He did his slow-motion lie down between the clean pillows and was content to stay put when we went back outside to read.

Periodically, we peeked in the windows to find him still sleeping soundly on our bed. When he awoke, staring and meowing at us through window, I brought him back outside to just sit in my lap.  Voila. Perfecto! He dozed there while I read a magazine laid across his back. I should have learned from the drive that holding him was the way to introduce him to something new—from the safety of my arms.  I was learning.

Because of the current drought in California, no campfires were allowed, which suited us fine since we were both pretty tired and ready to go to bed at dark.  The animals were too.  Mia happily crawled into her bed under the dinette table, and Jack hopped into his little round cat bed looking for his nighttime cookies.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I awoke to something walking across my legs.  This was a new experience for me, and I have to say, having a cat in bed is surprisingly delightful.  I felt like a kid breaking the rules.

Jack crawled up and lay between me and the wall, making a contented soft chunk-chunk noise like a baby chipmunk. I fell back to sleep with my arm around his little gray and white body.

I woke again near morning when a soft paw touched my nose. Sleepily, I pet him and he lay back down.  Sometime later, I woke again to the same soft paw on my nose.  I had to laugh, and hoped that I wouldn't wake up Garth. 

So that’s what it’s like to sleep with a cat, I thought.  There are definitely some tender moments. Blast the cat hair!

By Day Two, Jack was a seasoned camper. He had every square inch of the motorhome figured out, and his favorite spots were sitting on the bed over the cab looking out the window, and sleeping on our bed.  We were careful to check his whereabouts whenever we went in or out but he never made a movement toward the door.

We’d put his litter box in the shower, and, as cats do, he easily found it, and used it—usually in the middle of the night—with prolonged scratching and shuffling of litter.  Thank goodness cats can take care of all of that by themselves.  I imagined what it would be like to harness him up in the middle of the night and take him outside.  This is one area where I have to admit, cats are better than dogs.

By Day Three, the four of us had established our rhythm, and we were all in camp-chill mode. We only took Jack for very short strolls, away from the bushes.  He was most happy just to sleep inside, or in his own camp chair outside.

That night, he slept between our feet, but never did that gentle nose touch after the first night. I was a little disappointed, knowing that when we got home, the no-cats-or-dogs-on-the-bed rule would apply once more.

On Day Four, we packed up to come home.  Jack hid under the driver's seat, but when we got ready to pull out, he was calm, relaxed and sitting on my lap—this time with two towels between us.

When Garth started the engine, he let out a yowl, but then settled into quiet observation of things passing by.  Every four minutes or so (better than 30 seconds), he’d let out a little meow which sounded more like “wow” in appreciation for the beautiful ocean views.

We were about half an hour from home and Jack became more agitated.  He tried to climb onto the window again, but I held him back.  Smart me—I'd placed duct tape over the window controls prior to leaving—just in case.  He became more and more restless and turned to give me a weird look.  I still have difficulty reading cats—they always seem to look angry about something.

His paws felt really warm on my lap, and then I realized it was something else. Pee.  And then more pee.  Lots and lots of cat pee—soaking through both towels, my sweatshirt and jeans. 

All we could do was laugh.  I held Jack close and we sat together in our warm little puddle. He calmed right down and seemed perfectly comfortable the rest of the way home.  I’m glad one of us was!

Moral of the Story:  If a cat seems content indoors, he/she probably is. If you take a cat camping, make it a short trip.  It’s better for both of you.