The title says it all: I am a cat person.  I like that they’re loners.  I like that they could take or leave you.  I like that their drool, although present, isn’t visible.  And I like that when they’re ready to cuddle, they’re fierce about it.My new landlord’s approach to pets was:  none allowed.  So I guess it was just dumb luck when the pound kitty I picked up last January left me for another, more affluent family a mere six months after we shacked up together.  My luck.

Then, two months ago (and over a year later), the bicycle accident hit.  Friends and family came from near and far to stay, attend, check in, and basically show they cared about me.  I am grateful for that.  What these well-meaning friends and family also did was feed this family of feral cats.  Then they left.  The friends, not the cats.

No, the cats stayed.  The stayed in the corner of the yard, where they eat, drink, and doze.  They daren’t come near the house.

Until recently, tha tis.  They’re still skittish, but most nights when I come home they are waiting near one of my two doors.  And you know they’re not waiting with love or for attention.  No, these wild animals only want one thing:  food.

And so food I give them.  Bobby and Patty, the two kittens, are fearless; their teenage mother Jackie is less trusting, more elusive, and rarely bothers to come around when company is in the area.  I named them after the Kennedys.  (It was hard to find Kennedys who didn’t disgust us, but we did it.)

Patty is a mess, a runt whose sheen does not compare to her mother or brother’s.   I have seen that survial-mode mother of hers kick her own daughter away when she tries to nurse.  It seems there is only enough breast milk for one, and that’s Bobby.  He’s adorable–patches of white appear on his chin, ears, feet, and whiskers.  Patty is fearless.  Bobby is cute.  Bobby is twice Patty’s size.  And mom is, well, mom.

They’re becoming a pain: crying outside one of my many windows, on the deck, and on their lawn for more food.  I am trying to feed them just a little bit so their survival instincts stay sharp, don’t want them getting to attached.  This shouldn’t be a problem because I have never pet any of them.  I get the cuteness and the whining but not the touching–they are too wild.

Still, with the crying and the hanging around the empty food bowl, I am glad to have company.  And secretly delighted.