He was here before we were, this very clean and fluffy feral boy with the telltale nicked ear (that told us someone had trapped him, had him neutered and released him again).
He wasn't just some stray old Tom who showed up when he felt like it or was hungry. He was more than that.
We named him Mitchell, which soon became shortened to Mitchy.
Mitchy made our property his own, and rarely ever left. With few exceptions over the years, the furthest he'd roam was through the fence to the skids and stacks of stuff in the factory parking lot behind the cedars that line our backyard. Unlike our other ferals Monkey and Blacky, we'd never see Mitchy cross the street or venture beyond the end of our sidewalk or driveway.
In the warm weather, he could always be found napping in our garden, guarding the sump pump pipe in anticipation of a whoosh of water, or languishing in the warm rays of sun on our driveway.
In the winter, he'd go in his "hobo hut" underneath the trailer parked on our property, or lay on some of the loose straw piled between the bales around it to form a barrier from the biting wind and cold. Or he'd hang on our front porch, looking to all the world like he totally belonged there.
No matter when or for what reason I left the house, he'd come running to me from wherever he was, anxious to talk to me and to be petted while he purred and purred and purred. He was a lover, not a fighter; no scars ever marred his sweet face or pink nose. And no matter how muddy or mucky it got, he kept his white fur meticulously clean.
Last year in February, we noticed him favouring his left front paw. At first it was just a slight limping, but then I discovered an angry, festering sore just above his dew claw. Soon he was hobbling around on three legs while holding the injured one off the ground. It was heartbreaking and neither I nor Hubby could stand to see him suffer. Several phone calls to our understanding vet helped us cope. She agreed that it was highly unlikely we could ever trap him and even if we could, it was be extremely traumatic for him (and maybe even dangerous for them) to be examined She encouraged us and reassured us that he would likely heal on his own. And yet, even though he must have been in incredible pain, one day we saw him playfully batting around the cap from a caulking gun (that he been left behind by our roofers) with his good front paw. He found a way to do everything he usually did, including stalking and chasing birds that I suspect he never had any intention of capturing. It took almost 3 months, but little by little, he got the full use of his paw back.
When we'd return home and it was close to supper time, he'd be waiting in the driveway or on the porch for us. When I'd go outside to check the food supply, by the time I'd gone in to get more and opened the door again, he'd be waiting on his haunches at the door.
Everyone who knew us knew Mitchy. When we'd be gone from home overnight, my mom would come and feed our ferals until we returned.
If I had to predict which one of our ferals would disappear for good, I would have bet on Blacky, who was born on our property but we were unsuccessful in myriad attempts to trap and take him in to be neutered. Or Monkey, who like Mitchy was also here long before we were, but who can often be seen jumping scaling fences, crossing the street or roaming way far away.
I would never have bet on Mitchy. Because he wasn't just a feral cat. He was so much more than that.
Recent Comments