The Feral Housecat by Connie McEntire

The Feral Housecat

by Connie McEntire

THE FERAL HOUSECAT by: Connie McEntire ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Grey Girl was not a special cat in any way, but to me all cats are special, as are all of Gods creatures. She was just a mixed breed - an undersized tabby cat with a tiny face and large fearful eyes which grew larger in relation to the nature of her fear. She feared everything and everyone from the time she was born under our house five years previously. Her siblings wobbled out from under the house with their mother in a few weeks, but Grey Girl did not venture out for almost two months. We caught fleeting glimpses of her when she ran out to eat the food we left for her, and then ran back to the shelter of the house. I began to sit on the steps of the porch, and every day she would quietly slip out and sit and watch me with her large, fearful yellow eyes. Eventually, she came close enough that I could touch her very gently and rub her ears for a few seconds before she would bolt. It was several months before we could coax her into the house and then she would find a dark corner to lie in or under one of the beds. She would have nothing to do with the other cats; in fact she completely avoided them. In their playfulness they would chase her, but once she was cornered, she would hiss at them and put out an unsheathed paw (she never learned to sheath her claws) and they would turn and walk away from her. She was, to all intents and purposes, a typical feral cat, although at times she seemed to crave attention and being touched, but was afraid to accept it. She did have two unlikely friends - our two dogs, Baby, a cocker spaniel, and Yackity, a small but very confident, cocky, loud-voiced terrier who doted on her. Baby, an older dog, tolerated her and permitted her to stand under her chin and rub against her. When I would let the dogs out and Grey Girl was lying in the yard, Yackity would make a beeline for her at top speed. Grey Girl would pull herself up into a ball, put her head down and wait for the onslaught. Inevitably, Yackity would hit her straight on, knocking her over and rolling her over several times. At that point, Grey Girl would take off running and would lead the dog in a headlong dash around the yard, ending up with Grey Girl halfway up one of our pine trees and Yackity sitting at the bottom of the tree waiting for her to come down. In a few minutes she would back down and Yackity would then proceed to groom her, licking her all over and even cleaning out her ears. She seemed to enjoy this and lay quietly while he performed the cleaning. That was the closest relationship Grey Girl ever had with anyone. Sometimes she would jump up on the arm of the couch or chair I was sitting in and hunker there staring at me out of those large frightened eyes. Sometimes she would tentatively put out a paw, indicating that she wanted petted and I would oblige her, but it never lasted more than a few minutes and she would be off and running. A few times she jumped up on my lap and I would rub her ears. Then it seemed she realized what she had done and where she was and she would jump down quickly. She was a good hunter and on one occasion brought home a baby squirrel and several times a mouse. At one time she jumped on the couch and laid a dead mouse beside me, which I accepted as the gift that it was. We never solved the mystery of what she was so afraid of. She was frightened by loud noises, passing cars, someone talking or moving too quickly, or an acorn falling near her. Grey Girl never slept peacefully curled up in a ball as many cats do, or as two of my cats still do, lying on their backs, their front legs in the air, allowing their hind legs to completely relax in an unabashed position of complete abandonment and trust. She remained on her haunches, feet under her, ready for a quick escape if necessary. She never completely closed her eyes but kept them slitted so she could see what was going on around her. She had never been hurt by anything or anyone to my knowledge in all of her five years. I wonder if perhaps she had a premonition of her destiny and was constantly on guard to avoid it. That fateful morning, she had been in the field across the road, hunting things real or imaginary. As she was stepping out to cross the road to the house, she had one foot on the road, her nose just sticking out far enough to be hit by the speeding car which clipped her just hard enough to twist her head around and break her tiny neck. I wonder if she knew, in that fleeting instant as she died, that she had come to the point that she had feared all of her life --- her own violent death. So goodbye, little Grey Girl, rest in peace - there is nothing more to fear.

Comments would be appreciated by the author, Connie McEntir