When I was putting the cat food in the dish, Blondie would come right up to me and wait for me to spoon the food out of the cans. But if I made the slightest move towards her she’d immediately run away from me. Even after 6 years. Sometimes I’d say to her: “Now isn’t that ridiculous. After 6 years, and you still don’t trust me!”
In a way, Blondie was like a chick who was playing hard to get. But then when you start losing interest in them, they come running after you. For awhile I was stashing my camping gear up the road, because this nut kept sneaking into my campsite and messing with my stuff while I was gone. Blondie would be waiting for me every night at the foot of the trail to my campsite. And when she’d see me walk past the trail and continue on up the road, she would panic and start chasing after me up the road. I’d have to stop and tell her: “No. You wait right here. I’ll be right back.” And she seemed to understand me. She’d turn and head back to the trail.
I never really liked the term “feral” cat. It always sounded a little undignified. It conjured up images of scrungy and dirty alley cats. In fact, feral cats are like any other cat, they’re incredibly clean. It seems like they spend half their lives grooming themselves. They really are a bit narcissistic. Ha ha. I much prefer the term “wild” cats. Because they really are wild. They’re wild animals. My feral cats had the best of both worlds. They had the freedom and independence to indulge their true cat nature 24 hours a day, without human interference. While also getting fed every day. In a way, they were like the ultimate cats. Unlike housecats, who get fat and lazy sitting around all day, my feral cats were in incredible shape from all the exercise they got roaming the woods. Plus, they ate better than 90% of the humans on the planet. So they were loaded with protein. I sometimes considered them Robo-Kittycats.
Blondie was the most scared and timid of the feral cats. The slightest sign of a disturbance or an intruder and Blondie would go sprinting up the hill like she was shot out of a rocket. Then she’d sit there at the top of the hill, from a safe distance, watching and waiting for a long time until she mustered the courage to trot back down the hill.
Sometimes I’d sort of scold Moo Cat. “Don’t you remember all those months when Blondie used to feed you and protect you when you were a kitten? She’s your own mother, for god’s sake. Show a little respect.” But I never interfered with the cats and their doings. I’m sure they had their own reasons for their behaviors and I didn’t want to tamper with it. They were like perfect cats in their most cat-like essence.
Blondie was an incredibly beautiful cat. She carried herself with this regal, dainty air. Unlike most of the other feral cats, she seemed more fragile, and she had almost no aggression to her. She really was kind of a queen among cats.