Feral

”Look what your cat did to me!”

I was in my room watching DVDs and shunning human contact, like anyone else on a Sunday afternoon. My mom burst in waving a swollen hand with a spot of red behind her thumb where a cat's claw had broken the skin. Technically, none of the cats around here are “mine”, but then it wasn't a literal expression. I was familiar with a more common variation from when I'd misbehave as a child, and my dad would come home to, “do you know what your son did today?”

“Chirp doesn't do that,” I said, naming the closest animal that could be considered my cat, knowing full well he wasn’t who she meant. He's the friendliest and most docile cat we've ever owned. He'll curl up and nap on me when I'm on the couch watching television, and when I come home from work he stands on the kitchen table on his hind legs and rests his front paws on my shoulder until I scratch his ears. If there's a box or laundry basket around, he jumps in and waits to be carried around the house, and he never fusses when we cut his nails. He loves attention.

Now Cubby, our resident cringer, practically has to be tied down to have his nails clipped. He squirms and cries and bites, and we're lucky if we can get two nails done before he flees. Most of the time, he's content to sleep on my parents' bed, and perks up any time food hits his dish. He'll only swat on those rare occasions he feels cornered or threatened, and only did serious damage to my mom once.

A few years ago, her friend's daughter was visiting, and had one of those little yappy purse dogs in a bag on her shoulder. For some reason, my mom thought it would be cute to bring Cubby out, and he'd be fine as long as she was holding him. He got one look at the rodent-sized canine and wasn't happy. He morphed into sharp itself, 12 pounds of claws and teeth clamping down on my mom's hand. After she got back from the hospital, we knew that was the last time we'd take Cubby out of the haven of their room and introduce him to other species.

”Look what your cat did to me!” It might have been Cubby, and it definitely wasn't Chirp, but I knew full well she was talking about ”Sunday”, a stray who's taken to our food and our warm entranceway, but not so much to us. In the weeks we've been feeding him, we've been able to get a little closer without scaring him, a ten foot radius became five, and then three. Any closer, and he hisses. Once I lured him into the kitchen with a trail of crunchy treats. The second the door closed behind him, he flattened to the floor and growled, and I actually heard a ”SNIKT” as 20 claws popped out. “It's okay man...be cool...be cool...” I said, slowly opening the door again and letting him dart outside. We didn't see him anymore that day, but he was back on the doorstep the next morning.

Cube pointed out that without human contact by a certain age, cats can remain feral for life. This prompted research on my part to confirm. We had a similar case a few years ago with a Polydactyl named Bigfoot. He never came in the house and relied on us and other cat-friendly neighbors to leave food out, but my mom was eventually able to pet him. He'd run after a minute, but never did swat her.

There are degrees to how feral an animal can be. It takes longer for it to trust humans, and takes a lot of patience. Apparently, its lineage is key as well. If one or both of the parents were domestic, a young cat rescued from the wild has a better chance of adapting to home life. If it was born from wild parents, it might never adapt. One article I read likened keeping such an animal locked indoors akin to bringing in a raccoon or a squirrel. We'd all be miserable in that situation and wouldn’t be doing anyone any favors.

I don't think that this cat is that far gone, but he's definitely not ready to be touched, as my mom found out the hard way. I think she needed to exercise the 90-10 rule from Hitch and let him decide to move in that last 10%. She had a bump on her hand, and some red spots developed on her face that may or may not have been related. None of my research on cat scratches described the latter as a symptom. After that, she declared she wasn't going to feed him anymore. The next morning he was on the step, and let out a pitiful meow and looked up with those Puss in Boots saucer eyes. How can anyone say no to that? She broke down after a day or two, while I never stopped putting out food.

He's not completely feral, but he's feral enough. It's not impossible to tame a feral cat, but it could take a long time. I think he did sense he'd crossed a line when my mom didn't put food out for a day, and in his own warped way tried to make amends. The other day he apparently left a “present” near her car. She found a pile of red feathers and what may have once been the head of a Cardinal.

If for no other reason than for the lives of the little woodland creatures, we should probably make sure our Feral friend doesn't go hungry.