I guess I’ll never learn. It is not emotionally safe to name feral animals.
They come and go and don’t want anything to do with people.
A couple weeks ago, I became attached to this tiny little kitten outside with white feet. I thought he was alone in the world so I fed him a few times. Then I realized there were actually three kittens and a mama cat living beside/behind/around our home.
The first kitten’s name is Fernando, because he seemed much braver than the other kittens and that just seemed like a good name for an adventure cat. The fluffy kitten is Rosalinda, and the solid one is Chester. You know, just in case you see them around.
One time Fernando was hungry enough that he let me rub his little back while he gobbled up some kitten food. He growled and purred and was kind of pitiful. I wish I had just scooped him up and brought him inside right there. But he had a mama, and it seemed mean to steal a baby from its mama.
On Monday, Forrest found Fernando in the road. I guess he was trying to adventure across the street and didn’t see the car.
I feel sick about that little cat, and I realize it’s ridiculous. The other kittens seem to be more cautious; maybe they’ll be safe.
Anyway, our actual cats drive me insane (read: Hemingway creeping in my closet), but I am grateful for them. Hemingway in particular, since she was a wild yard cat before we brought her inside and made her wear silly outfits.
So I guess the moral of the story is that we should remember to hug our pets (even cats who don’t want it) and not fall in love with feral critters. It never ends well. Remember that guy with the tiger in Ohio? Sheesh.
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