The Tale of Tom Kitten, revised.

I first met Tom with his two littermates in my backyard in early November. He was standing over a dead pigeon his mother, a pretty but too thin black cat I have yet to name, clearly had killed and brought to her kits. It appeared to be their first time tearing into fresh meat, the warm blood running down their chins, and their eyes wild with the flavor of animal. I stepped closer to where they were, in a protected corner thicket, sending the two girls skittering. But Tom remained, chewing away. I took a couple more steps and was close enough to touch him, my eyes on his mom, a scant two feet away, staring at me with a ferocity of intent. He suddenly was aware of me standing over him, and jerked to attention. He hissed, and covered with blood, looked plenty scary. Later when I recounted the experience to a friend, I referred to him as a werekitten.

A few days later I spotted the three hopping around the yard in the unseasonally warm sun. I laid out a plate of food and tried to see how close I could get to them while they ate. Again the girls ran before I was close enough to touch them, but Tom, little big man that he was, stayed at that plate and did his best to intimidate me, all one pound of him, bristling and hissing and attempting to chase me off long enough to eat his fill. I admit, he staved me off a bit too. Small though they may be, a kitten has a fine bite when he wants to. I should know.

I set up a dog kennel and the two girls tumbled into it as soon as I was out of sight, some kitten food too much of a temptation. Tom on the other hand proved a more difficult catch. I watched him tentatively for hours, hoping he wouldn't disappear for too long. When I thought he might be a bit hungry again I got a plate of tuna with bits of cheese, and left it in my dog's old training crate in the driveway at the back of my house. I hid on the other side of the car and eventually he bit. I was able to stealthily lean over the hood of the Honda and use a rake to shut the door on him. He jumped and looked at me accusingly. More hissing ensued. I figured I better nip this one in the bud quick, but careful... real careful. I crawled into the crate slowly and extended a gloved hand. Backing into a corner, Tom bristled and arched. I got brave and touched him anyway. "Here we go," I thought. Rubbing his neck, he suddenly turned to mush. Of course... fleas! Lots of them. But boy did that work in my favor. The lovely scratching turned out to be the key to poor Tom's heart, and I suddenly had a new best friend.

Of this litter of three I took in, Tom is the only one who didn't look back. He was scrawny, growing much more quickly than his sisters, and not eating enough to fill out his expanding frame. He had a respiratory infection that had rendered him more susceptible to flea and lice infestation. Another month or two on the street and Tom wouldn't have made it. Thing is, I think he knew that too. From the very first rub, to the moment I put him in the arms of his new owner, that cat was more affectionate to me than any animal has ever been. He never once tried to run from me, and from the very first, he wanted nothing more than to be everywhere I was. He was something of a puppy actually. And at the risk of being sentimental and perhaps revealing a softer side, I will never forget his face as he sat in the car leaving what had become his very happy home with me. Quizzical and a little sad I think. I know I was.

Yes I am inspired by the facts of the matter. Yes, I saved his little life. Whoopee. If I hadn't, as a sentient adult observing the reality of the urban feral problem, what would that make me? Fucking rotten, that's what. But I digress. Point is, I get the whole feel-good la-di-da of what I do with the strays in my pocket of New York, and of course I am not going to stop.

Damned if it isn't hard as diamonds to do sometimes.