Our 'feral' feline: It’s a Grey area

Monday kicks off Adopt-a-Less-Adoptable-Pet Week. We have one, or at least we meant to. Funny story.

Once upon an autumn did suddenly appear a … sprig of fur.

This frail creature was an ugly, misshapen thing. Astoundingly filthy (cat-lovers, have you ever known a filthy cat, even a feral one?). So skinny we couldn’t believe she was still upright. No collar. Some kind of rash all over the chin. A corner bit off one ear.

Grey as the dust under which she was blanketed. Relatively broad head atop a razor-thin body, if you can find it under all the fluff. Now picture this: Hind legs dachshund-short and inward about 6 inches from the tail and hiney (with no, um, male parts).

Odd-looking, for a cat.

Naturally we put out pie tins with chow and water on the porch. At first, the merest glimpse of us and she’d bolt for the bushes at lightning speed. But once alone again, kitty tentatively crept forward and inhaled the food. (Didn’t touch the water, but we’ll get to that).

We kept it up daily, creatively dubbing her “Grey Kitty.” As winter approached we began to worry, but Grey Kitty kept appearing, if less often, to wolf down these offerings (again, never touched the water).

When winter brought one of those giant snow dumps which stayed frozen for months, no more Grey Kitty sightings. We were terrified. Poor thing had to be trapped in an igloo, cold and miserable, slowly starving!

When the thaw finally came, we waited on tenterhooks. Wondering where we’d find that skin-and-bones, dusty grey carcass. Yet miraculously, one spring day Grey Kitty finally appeared, squeaking in the front yard.

Did I mention Grey doesn’t meow so much as squeak like a mouse?

Determined she wouldn’t endure another winter in the wilds of a suburban neighborhood, we spent months building trust. Working up to being 2 feet away as she crunched. Then petting her while she ate (we still do that; it’s cute).

Eventually we were graced with dusty cuddles after the chow-down. Grey began to venture inside — if we shielded her from alpha-cat Karma, who made it clear Grey was NOT welcome (and still isn’t, but Grey stopped caring).

By October, Grey Kitty spent many an afternoon with us, leaving a trail of ick every time, like PigPen.

This heralded a first trip to the vet for our new adoptee, for shots and a good groom. (Turns out, minus the dirt Grey looks even weirder. And still dirt-grey.)

“This will take a while,” said the vet tech. “Just leave her with us and we’ll call you when she’s ready.”

Maybe an hour later the vet herself calls. Oh no! There must be something really wrong …

“Well, Mrs. Patrick, I have news for you. First, this cat is not feral; it’s chipped and belongs to (the family whose back deck is visible from ours).

“And it’s not a she. She’s a he (they’re just, um, practically microscopic).”

“Oh, and his name is Belle.” (Because the neighbors also thought he was a girl.)

Long story not so short, Grey Kitty/Belle lacked neither food nor shelter. S/He was loved and has never been feral.

He just looks feral because he spends 90 percent of his time outside and is the only cat I’ve known who rolls in the dirt like a dog. He’ll tear his neck to shreds before he’ll keep a collar on. (We gave up after four collar-shreds.)

So after a neighborly confab – seems Grey-Belle didn’t get along with their new dog — it was agreed we’d keep him.

The rash is long gone but he’s still filthy all the time, always dragging dried detritus in the house. Still light as a feather and goofy-looking. He’s never been seen at the water bowl and he still squeaks like a mouseling.

We couldn’t adore the beast more.

Sholeh Patrick is a columnist for the Hagadone News Network who must have been feline in another life. Contact her at Sholeh@cdapress.com.