Mr. Boots, the Feral Cat

Have you ever had a cat?  I have a cat.  I should say, I feed a cat!  I’m fairly certain that, if there is a feline in our lives, it thinks it owns us.  Not vice versa.

Anyway, a cat, whom I have dubbed Mr. Boots, comes to my back porch morning and night, as regular as clockwork, to be fed.

When he first appeared, my immediate thought was, “Great!  Another stray!”  My neighborhood seems to have its fair share of stray cats.  And it upsets me that people will not get their animals spayed or neutered!  There are so many local agencies that can help with that.  It doesn’t have to cost a lot, which I realize not everyone can afford.  But it certainly is cheaper than raising a litter of unwanted kittens!  In my area, Spay Arkansas does wonderful work!

When Mr. Boots arrived as a homeless stray, he was so wild I couldn’t even get close enough to tell his gender.  So, he was just ‘Kitty” for a while.  I had hoped he was someone’s kitten who had become lost and would find his way home soon.  I was fairly certain that was not the case since he was so wild.  I finally had to admit that his mother, like most feral cat mammas, had dispersed her litter to places where she thought they might have the best chance of survival.  She had good instincts.  I have fed him morning and evening every day since. 

At first, he was so frightened that I had to put out his food and go back inside to watch through the storm door.  He ate like a wild animal, scanning his surroundings for danger.  If he heard a sound, he’d run, then cautiously come back. 

He made friends with Oscar, the dachshund, first.  I was surprised one day when I came to let the pup back inside to find that the poor thing was being purred at and rubbed against by the little kitten, apparently so in need of attention that he had forced himself upon a very reluctant dog.  Oscar looked at me with pleading eyes, “Make it go away…”  He wanted none of this!

But the little creature wouldn’t go away.  So, we decided to keep him and make him as much of a pet as possible.  Which was next to nil.  He cannot be called a pet for he is not that.  He will never be that.  But he is a fellow-creature who inhabits the place where I have chosen to live.  And he has chosen to stay.  He chose me. 

Over the time Mr. Boots has been here, we have come to an understanding.  On cold, rainy nights (and sometimes days), he knows he can stay in my utility room.  If it’s bad outside, he skitters through the door as soon as I open it.  He’s a gentleman and even uses the litter box I have put there just for him. 

Sometimes, as I work, I see him watching me through the storm door and I open it to let him in.  “No, thank you”, he seems to say.  He isn’t even interested in my utility room unless it is raining and cold.  I have no illusions.  He doesn’t come to see me.  It is purely survival.

The one time when he allows me to touch him is when he is patiently waiting for his food.  Purring, he rubs against my legs as I put his food down.  Then he reaches out his paw to touch my hand.  I don’t know how this ritual began but he trusts me enough to let me scratch under his chin, along his sides, and up and down his back.  It’s the only chance I have to get my hands on him.  He’s in pretty good shape for a wild cat.  When he’s had enough, he begins eating.

Then he’s off to an adventure.  Some days he disappears completely.  Others, he goes to the picnic table under the cabana or lays on the grass in the shade of the small tree by the back steps.  He sleeps, or contemplates, or grooms.  He’s a fastidious cat, keeping his white socks and his lustrous fur in immaculate presence.  He’s beginning his prime.  He’s beautiful and he knows it.  He reminds me of Bustopher Jones in ‘Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats’.

He is a wild creature.  I know one day he will not show up for his morning meal.  And I will be sad.  I will call and look for him.  But he will be nowhere to be found.  I’ve been through this before.  I hope he makes it up to the Heaviside Layer.

Do you live with a cat?  Be honest.  Who owns Whom?