Wild thing

Wild thing,
You make my heart sing …

—lyrics from “Wild Thing” by The Troggs

I love animals. Taking a walk with me is like going to a networking event because I “shake hands” and “chat” with every neighborhood dog and cat on our way.

So when we were awakened around dawn by a cat howling in our backyard, I wasn’t mad.  There he was—a long-haired black cat I had never seen before.  When I opened the back glass door to give him some food, he dashed away, but he returned a moment later to eat.

Within a couple of days, he was humanely trapped, neutered, immunized, and in our garage recuperating overnight.  He was obviously feral because he was terrified at being inside, so I opened the garage door and let him go—absolutely positive that I would never see him again and fearing that he would equate me with pain and captivity.

Lo and behold, he was back in our yard the very next day, sitting on our back stoop right by the glass door and waiting for his breakfast. And he kept showing up at our back door day after day.

We decided to call him Backyard Boy—BYB for short. We didn’t want to give him an official name or get too attached, knowing he could be out of our lives in short order.  A feral cat’s life is neither long nor comfortable.

To keep him dry and warm, I got a doggie “igloo” from a neighbor and put it in a covered area in our backyard.  I put cat nip in the igloo to get him interested. BYB would come and sleep in the igloo when it was raining or when the warm late afternoon sun would shine directly inside it. I felt so good knowing that he had a safe and warm place to relax.

When I would see him in the igloo or sleeping elsewhere in our backyard, I would sometimes go out just to be with him. I would sit in a chair or work in the garden several yards away.  When he wanted cat nip, he would sit on a particular wall and wait. It was so much fun to see him sniff it and roll around in it. What joy I felt knowing that he was having a good time!

Soon BYB was coming by several times a day, sometimes to sit on the back stoop and other times just to be in the backyard.  We would feed him whenever we saw him.  If I came home late after his usual dinnertime, I would call to him, and he would show up no matter what time. Still, whenever I would open the back door to put out his food, he would dash away and return to eat after a few moments.

Sometimes when I was feeding him, instead of immediately closing the back glass door, I would kneel down next to his bowl and put my head down to be near to him but not make eye contact.  I could see him out of the corner of my eye: He would sniff me and hesitate, but then he’d very gingerly come up and eat, allowing me to be within a foot of him. That was the closest I could get.

Our routine went on for several years. Then, one day, he didn’t show up in the morning, which was unusual.  And he didn’t show up that night or the next day. I called and called to him, but he didn’t come. I was worried.  I went around the neighborhood calling him and asking neighbors about him, but he was an enigma—no one was aware of his existence except us.

A few days later, I was so happy!  He showed up at the back stoop, sitting there as usual looking in through the glass door. I put out his food and turned away.  When I turned back, he was gone—without eating.  That’s the last time I saw him.

In my heart, I know that he came to say goodbye to us. Years have passed, but to this day, I look out the glass door and hope to see him there on the back stoop … waiting to be fed.