Please meet the friendly neighborhood stray cat that now resides in the home of the people that live in the basement of my hosue. I call it Meh, and only with a grimace. I have one problem with it, and one problem only. It's still alive.
I have never liked animals, I will never like animals, and nor will I pretend to. As mentioned, we found this cat as a stray when we first moved in, and I found it disgusting beyond all belief, although it seems I am the only one that thought so. It was skin-y. Not just skinny. You know the kind, where the flesh and fur is just hanging down off the bones so you could reach out and grab a handful of solely furry skin if you felt like catching fleas. The fur was thick and matted, scary to the touch (not that I touched it or anything. Good heavens, I did not touch it.), let alone to look at. In addition, underneath what would have been the tail had it existed resided a nasty, strange, brown clump that mysteriously resembled something of dry fecal matter tangled up in its fur. I wanted to throw up when I saw it.
Before I could take care of this pesticide myself, my lovely neighbors below me took matters into their own hands, and I gradually noticed the cat plumping up little by little, getting less timid, and I soon heard the faint sound of a bell tinkling with every bound of the animal, which required a double take, hoping my suspicions would not be confirmed. A bell? On a collar? Oh dear. A collar. Suspicions confirmed. Next thing I knew, I was being disturbed by a maddening yowl coming from my front porch, and a furry ball darting in the house every time the door opened. I found myself attempting to coax it out from under my bed, or calling to my neighbors to come retrieve their own vermin. I didn't worry too much. I didn't think it would survive the winter. Especially when it was left to fend for itself over the cold and snowy Thanksgiving and Christmas break when everybody left.
Alas, it's still alive. I only regret I didn't call the animal shelter when I could.
