This is, more or less, just a little babbling about my kitty.
We have a feral cat.
I mean, she says that all the time. “I’m feral! Zoom!” and she runs all the way up the stairs. “I’m feral! Oh no!” Zip, under the bed.
She’s really sure she’s a wild feral cat.
You know, like “here’s the WWI Ace Fighter Pilot…” Yeah.
We got her from outside, where she was semi-feral, a barn kitten from down the road who had been eating out of our compost bin.
T. took months of feeding her and coaxing her closer, until she was willing to let him handle her.
Then we shoved her in a carrier and left her at the vets for three days.
That was four years ago. (editor’s note, no, that was 5 years ago, since we brought her inside 7 years ago… nowish, i.e., November 2019)
When I tell her “Merit, Nap time!” She comes and jumps up on me on the couch and sleeps on my hip/stomach.
When I go to bed, she sleeps to the left of me; when I wake up, she’s either on me or tucked against my right side. T. taught her to cuddle for food and now, when she’s hungry in the middle of the day, she will jump up on his lap and nap there for a little while.
She still says she’s feral, but you can pick her up without any complaint, she tolerates brushing and likes petting, and she talks to you when you ignore her.
(also, she yells at you when you sneeze).
Mirrored from Alder's Grove Fiction.
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