There is a feral cat who lives beyond my fence. I have seen him flitting around for years. Now, I am reaching out to him, with food, shelter, and petting.
His name is Oliver. My daughter suggested the name after Olivia Newton John died. He does not answer to his name. I usually just "meow" and he shows up, meowing in response.
This is my third cat. I rescued an older male who was on death's door in New York's winter a number of years ago. My son named him Strider, after the hero from Lord of the Rings. Strider was in his final days, and, despite my attempts at keeping him on my lap, he chose to go it alone, in the depths of my closet.
Then, we adopted a sweet tuxedo named Gemini. Gemini was a meowing baby, found by our dog Sammy. Sammy's unusual howling made us go outside at night to see what was wrong. A small kitten, without mother or siblings, she became our indoor/outdoor cat who responded to evening calls to come home. Sometimes, I would look out of my second-floor bedroom window to see her neon eyes. She was very good at staying in the neighborhood, not venturing into traffic. Gemini sat, purring on my daughters' chests, feeling as at home in our house, as around our neighborhood. We took her to our next home, where she became an indoor cat in her later years. She was affectionate, and still sat on my kids' chests when they were willing to be still.
Gemini developed mouth cancer and could no longer eat, nor clean herself. She lost weight and retreated to the closet. My daughter, the one who loved her the most, came with me to the vet's office. We held her as she passed into cat heaven, hoping she might wait for us at the end of the bridge.
I pride myself to be a dog person. But these feline companions have meant so much -- to me and to my kids. My Oliver greets me every day with an echoed meow, leading me to the makeshift house I have made, waiting for his breakfast and dinner, and excellent ear scratching. Oliver is mine, as much as I am his.
