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Posts Tagged ‘stray cat’

Like most evenings, my cat Boomer wanted to be let out. Only during rain or cold did he opt to stay inside.

The next morning, he failedBoomer to show up for breakfast.

Boomer was obsessed by food, so this was alarming. He first showed up on my doorstep (literally) six years ago as a skinny stray. Cat food, dog food, people food – he ate it all. He’d tear through plastic wrapping to gnaw on a loaf of bread. He’d jump on a counter or the table to steal bacon or a piece of pizza or a slice of meat if I turned away from it for more than five seconds. He’d hunch in the sink over unwashed cooking pots to lick up any chocolate frosting, mashed potatoes or hot cereal that might still have been left in them.

I ate like a convict, guarding my plate from attack.

After two days, alarm turned to certainty. He’d never missed one meal, much less four in a row. Boomer must be dead.

Maybe coyotes got him. He will be missed for a long time.

 

 

 

 

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Usually, people choose their pets. But my latest pet is a cat who showed up and insisted on joining our household. He behaved as if there were no question that he would live here and proceeded to make himself at home.

The first time I saw him, he sat on the porch step outside the kitchen door, calmly regarding my dog, Brownie, as she barked wildly just inches from his face on the other side of the glass.

Next, I heard terrific commotions late at night as my cat, Taffy, screeched warnings from the back porch to an intruder she wanted to scare away.

Then, whenever I pulled into my driveway, I’d hear him meowing as I stepped out of the car. He’d trot across the cul-de-sac and walk alongside me up the steps to the front door as if it were a foregone conclusion that he’d come inside. When I’d shut the door on him, he’d sit out there for a few minutes and vocalize his protest. His message was clear: “There’s been a mistake, you don’t understand, I’m supposed to live here.”

After he found the hole in the screen door out back, he’d appear on the back porch and jump into my lap, purring and rolling belly up, a request for affection that was irresistible. I’d scratch under his chin, smooth back his whiskers and gently rub his ears despite knowing this was no way to get rid of him.

I wasn’t interested in adding another pet. But he patiently continued to woo me while keeping an eye open for opportunity. He finally found the window I keep cracked open so Taffy (who refuses to use the cat door) can let herself in and out at will.

The day I saw him strolling through the living room, I knew he’d won.

He’s been examined, vaccinated and neutered. The vet said he’s about one year old, a big, healthy dark gray tabby who charmed her as easily as he did me. “He has such an expressive face,” she marveled.

I named him Boomer. It’s short for Boomerang, because he just kept coming back.

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