Note, today's post is based on a true story, told as best as I understand the details. Some parts may not be entirely accurate, but I have tried to stick with the facts as I know them. Brought to you by the word HISS.
I had no name. When people wanted to address me, rarely kindly, it's usually "get away" or "shoo, cat". I'll spare you the worst I've heard as a gentleman, even a furry one such as I am, hears words he refuses to repeat in polite society.
Not that I grew up in a polite society. I had been on the street long enough that my mother and siblings and those first few months are just a hazy blur. I do believe though that I was born indoors to a mother whose owners refused to spay. The children in the home meant well, but they played rough, and as such my siblings learned to return pulled tails and hard squeezes with claw and tooth, so we were abandoned outdoors as soon as our mother weaned us.
Life on the streets is hard, and harder than it should be. There are many homes out there which could benefit from the love a stray can give. After all, it's not a life we had chosen for ourselves, and you can hardly blame us for being suspicious, if not outright scared of humans when no one cares whether you live or die, or if you will find a safe spot to sleep that night.
And winter...brrrrrr. Even with all of my floof, I am a slender cat and weigh very little. My fur lets you think I am bigger than I am, but I am a product of years of lean times. Skinny cats, especially ones without the warmth and trust of a colony or other mates to snuggle with at night, can freeze during times of bitter cold.
But today I sit warm and comfortable, knowing I am safe, loved and that I will never have to worry about where my next meal will come. I have been a "house cat" for nearly 12 years now, but I still remember those years on the street.
I am small in stature. I'm no kitten, but I don't have the mass, or the temperament, to establish myself as king of the heap. My days were spent roaming, looking for food, water, and keeping an eye out for other cats in the neighborhood. Thanks to my birth mother's home life, our neighborhood was actually flooded with cats. It wasn't until years later that the neighbors finally got city officials to step in and insist that they get my mother spayed and immediately. The city even covered the expense for free at a local clinic, but by the time that happened the damage had been done.
I had half siblings and quarter siblings all over the place, all of us scrambling for the meager food supplies, and all of them having their own broods who would have their own, etc etc. You can see the problem, right? The neighborhood where I roamed was packed. You'd see cats walking on top of fences, sunning themselves on the sidewalk, and making the rounds looking for food that had fallen from the garbage cans, or try to catch what birds did land on the ground, rather than high up on the electric wires they usually hung out on.
Some well meaning people would leave food outside intentionally to feed us. Pretty soon every stray knew which houses they needed to visit and had a route memorized, based on when the bowls of cat food or scraps would be set out. For smaller cats like myself, this meant that I was forced to wait while all of the bigger guys had their turn, and often all that waiting, hoping for a meal meant one of two things: one, the food would be long gone by the time I was allowed near the bowl, or, worse, the second option meant I was able to get in a few precious moments to quickly wolf down what I could, only to be chased off my some latecomer, who would often corner me in a back yard and try ripping me to shreds.
I have chunks out of my ear if you don't believe it.
One house I visited, one of the women living there noticed me, day after day, hiding underneath the car in the driveway, hoping not to be seen, and hoping even harder that there would still be food in the dish when everyone had eaten their fill. Sure it could be dry food or even the day-old remains of what wet food those indoor cats hadn't finished off the night before, but when you're hungry you don't care if the stuff is stale. Food is food and a full tummy is better than an empty one, if you know what I mean. It doesn't matter what is in it.
When you're drinking from dirt-filled puddles whenever you can find one, you really can't be too finicky with what you eat.
In fact, I've since heard it said that you are what you eat... well, back then I was a little bit of whatever. Finding a home that would put out fresh water was also a godsend. Food and water? Well, that was a house worth putting on your route, even if you didn't always get to partake.
I hate to say it, but people really don't realize just how good their homes can smell, especially when you are hungry and the neighborhood is all busy making dinner. Scraps dumped into unreachable garbage cans were the worst, because you could smell it was there, but a little guy had no possible way to get any of it into that empty space deep inside of me. After all, you weren't going to eat those gizzards anyway, or maybe mom's meatloaf was too salty that night; I didn't care. I didn't even care if it was days old and starting to spoil. All I wanted was some food for my belly and a safe place to crawl into to wait for my stomach to be empty again and sending me back out on the search.
Still, that woman watched me in the mornings and in the evenings, taking note of when I'd try my luck. Sure there were times when she missed seeing me because she had to go to work, but she still kept an eye out for me whenever she was home. Not that she tried to approach, and not that I would let her anyway. I kept a healthy distance between myself and everything. She took to watching the other cats too, waiting for them to leave and quietly stepping out to place some extra food in the bowl so I had a chance to eat.
Other cats noticed, of course. Food wasn't exactly plentiful, especially in the winter months when there aren't even bugs for a desperate cat to eat. After a couple of weeks other cats would learned to backtrack and kick me away from my meal. I learned to eat even faster and to grab a chunk if it was something like chicken, to take with me as I ran off. Most times, however, ended up with me in the back yard again, screaming in pain as one bully or another hissed and tore into me.
There are things the woman doesn't even know about. She had been feeding me for over a year when, during that second winter, I didn't show up for nearly a week. I can't explain what happened, and I probably wouldn't even if I could. As it was she spent those days picturing me frozen to death in my sleep, or hit by a car and lying dead in the gutter. Maybe she drove by my hiding place, I can't say for sure, but she did drive around the neighborhood in wider and wider circles trying to spot me. Again, I can't ask, and she hasn't volunteered, but I think if she had found me dead she was going to give my little corpse a proper burial rather than allow me to decompose in some back alley.
As it was, she was first relieved to see me again and then horrified when she saw my condition. My usually groomed fur was matted and obviously not kept up. She couldn't get close enough to see the new chunk out of my left ear, but no one could miss my swollen hind leg that was held out stiffly and couldn't bear even my slight weight.
I think it was then that she decided no matter what that she was going to get me off of the streets.
Spring was only a month-and-a-half away, and the days were slowly getting warmer, but it was still snowy and plenty cold out. She set up a lounge chair at the top of the driveway and began sitting in it after bringing out some fresh food, morning and night. And not dry food, but a fresh can of wet food. A full can, not that I would be able to eat that much. Between her presence outside and having a full bowl of food and water there for me, she hoped I would be sure to get a little something without everyone else in the neighborhood beating me up. And it wasn't just for me, anything I left behind she'd leave out for any hungry cats that followed.
However, I struggled with the new arrangement. Sure, she was far enough away from me, but I tried outwaiting her under that car until my hunger couldn't take it. I would slink as low to the ground as I could and creep slowly, wanting to go as unnoticed as possible, but I would eventually head to the bowl of food and eat, and then take a quick drink before scuttling off as best as I could on my three functioning legs.
She spent weeks waiting me out, until I got used to her sitting there and stopped worrying about her presence. Slowly, every few days she would move her chair inches closer to the food dishes, until, by mid-spring she was only 10 feet away. By this point I was using my back leg again, and it was good to be back on all fours, but I have to admit, I wish she could have somehow gotten me to a vet during this time. I still run well, but I have days where that leg still bothers me. I have to ask to be picked up, because I can't always jump up into the chair we share together.
My leg troubles and that prominent notch in my ear are the only remainders seen from my days on the street. As you've surely guessed, I have been a happily adopted cat for most of my life now, and I love it. I guess if you are still reading this then you are probably wondering how it all finally went down, aren't you?
One day I simply walked past her after eating my breakfast instead of going the other way. No biggie, right? She managed to keep still and not react, so a few days after that I walked past her again, but this time I paused and then as a thank you I rubbed against her leg once before heading on my way.
After that she left an arm hanging down, rather than in keeping it in her lap as usual. So one day I gave it a sniff and rubbed my cheek against it. It took a little more time, but one day she moved her fingers to scratch my chin. Holy cow that felt good. I let her scratch my chin for a few minutes and then headed out.
The next day when I stopped for my chin scratch she reached down and picked me up. I tensed up for a moment, but then she started scratching my chin and I just melted into her arms. She stood up, carried me into the house, and that was it.
Well, not really. The next day I was in a cat carrier and being neutered. That was scary, and I admit, I soiled myself when being pulled out for surgery at the clinic. The techs cleaned me up as best as they could, but I came home that night really smelly and groggy, so the next morning, once I was a little more settled, she took me into the bathroom for a bath. We used all of her roommate's coconut dog shampoo, as well as her own bottle of shampoo and a can of tomato soup (after all, it works with skunk smell she said).
I still smelled a bit, and my white fur was stained a salmon pink, but both faded within a couple of weeks. Despite surgery, carriers, that marathon bath and the newness of being indoors, living with other cats and also a dachshund, I fell into a new routine. I would traverse the house the long way, hugging the walls so I had at least one side protected, avoiding the bathroom like the plague (no more baths for me, thank you), but I slept on her bed every night... and have every night since.
A lot has changed over the years. She got married, we moved a couple of times, and now she's disabled, kind of like me. I like it though, as this means I can nap on her lap or her shoulder or her chest anytime I want, and believe me I do. I have no interest in ever going back outside again, though sometimes I do have to ride in my carrier for a quick checkup with the vet or those times we moved, but that is enough by me. I love to sit inside and watch the birds and squirrels outside my window, but I have no need to hunt them. I have food available at all times, and now I eat at a much healthier pace. I am still what my adopted mom calls "bird-boned" as I weight hardly anything, but I am relatively healthy, given my age.
I really don't really know how old I am. The vet thought I was anywhere from 2 to 4 when mom first took me to see him. Given that it took probably 18 months for her to finally gain my trust, I was probably closer to 3 years old, and she knows I once had a home as I, thankfully, recognized a litter box for what it was since the start. So no real issues there.
If I was was 3 then I would now be 15.
As a gentleman I don't bite or scratch, except for the occasional claw that may get stuck as I climb up the chair on bad days when I can't jump. I don't even mind my new doggie roommate when she barks at me because she wants to play. I'm not saying I play with her, but I just try continuing my nap while she barks a foot away from me. Despite the volume of her barks, its just not worth getting worked up over.
Yes, I am definitely a gentleman.
I can't get enough love. I accept chin and ear scratches, strokes of my fur, and mom gives me 3 gentle tugs on my notched ear every now and again, just like her grandpa used to give her. Kisses are in demand. I'll cuddle on mom's chest and tilt my head back just so she can kiss my forehead. I even kiss back. Nothing is better than a warm, soft mom to sleep on, a sunbeam and some gentle kisses while we relax together.
I follow her all over, and the joke is I'm her little shadow, but the truth is I just love to be with her. Nothing really bothers me so long as mom is near, because I know she will keep me safe. And if I follow her into the kitchen I am sure to get treated with bites of whatever she's making for dinner.
All these years together and she still makes sure I have plenty of good food, and I get fun new catnip toys in my Christmas stocking each year. I really love catnip. I just ooze into a puddle for that stuff. My adopted brother loves fake mice, so that's what he gets, and this year will be my new sister's first Christmas with us. I wonder what she will find in her stocking. Not that the presents matter, I am content just for being off the street and loved.
Do I think all ferals want to be rescued? That's a hard one to answer, as some strays will remain wild no matter how hard you try. Do they still deserve to have people leave them food, water and shelter? Heck yes. Its not as if they chose the life. Capture, spay/neuter and release? Definitely. It keeps more kittens from being born in communities that can't support so many. And some cats would love to be able to trust humans. Maybe they come from abusive situations where it will take a long time to trust again, and maybe they never will, but every cat deserves that chance at a safe place to live and someone to care if they live or die.
After all, mom has adopted many strays from the street or taken on ones literally dumped on the doorstep, and she hasn't regretted it yet.
As for me? I am content to spend the rest of my life just knowing that I am loved.
