He came into my domain one spring morning, more dead than alive. His face was a mess of wounds; his eyes were nearly glued shut from the gunk issuing from the corners. He limped toward me as I sat on the back stoop enjoying my morning cigarette and coffee, his coat as dull as an old butter knife. His approach was wary, but his spirit was clearly at its nadir. I went inside and grabbed a piece of lunch meat and offered it to him. He wouldn’t come close enough to take it, so I threw it down to him on the sidewalk. He gobbled up the offering with gusto and went on his solitary way. It broke my heart to see any critter in such straights.
As the days progressed, the little fellow stopped by each morning and had breakfast with me as I smoked a smoke and drank a cup of coffee. I took to calling him Sparky and he soon realized I was referring to him when I called him that. He grew steadily bolder until one morning I hazarded an attempt to pick him up for a little triage. My mistake! He hauled off and bit me almost through the tip of my left ring finger as I attempted to wipe the goop from his eyes and see how his ears were healing. Now you can’t blame a cat for being a cat. How was he to know?
Our breakfast meetings were tense for a few days, and we eyed each other suspiciously, one wounded being to another. Eventually, hunger won over my little vagabond and he eventually deigned to let me pet him while he nosed down in the cat food bowl I resurrected from storage. My other cats eat from a feeder in the basement that ensures they always have dry cat food available. As Sparky’s diet improved, so did his coat and his attitude. As spring turned to summer, and the swelling in my finger subsided, we reached a sort of truce.
As summer came into its own, I shifted my morning smoke and coffee to the huge front veranda of the old Victorian the Missus and I share. It didn’t take Sparky long to figure out that the lunchmeat and cat food was in a new location. One morning, I was sitting on the steps petting him as he chowed down on his dry cat food and finishing, he rolled over onto his back and let me rub his belly. He played with me in his little ornery cat way, but did me no lasting harm but a few light scratches. You can’t blame a cat for being a cat now, can you?
After that, we became good friends. I looked forward to slipping him a dose of Lycine with his lunchmeat treat, and he pretended not to notice that I had. That cleared up his eyes and he started breathing better. His earlier wounds were pretty well healed and with a good steady diet of cat food, his coat was starting to take on a shine at last. He made no objection to getting a dose of flea and tick treatment on the nape of his neck while he ate. He started mingling with our other cats whenever they were outside with mixed results. They can figure out their pecking order without my interference.
A week or so ago, I again hazarded an attempt to pick little Sparky up and he didn’t struggle at all. He curled up on my chest and purred as he made biscuits on my arm. He’s a sweet little guy, and time is fast approaching to take him to the vet for shots, tags, and . . . neutering! I don’t know how I can ask him to forgive me for something I would never forgive myself, but that is simply the way of things. I almost feel sorrier for him now than when we first met.
Scottie
No comments:
Post a Comment