Acid Heroes

March 20, 2014

Blondie the feral cat

Filed under: Backwords from Ace — Ace Backwords @ 11:14 pm

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This is Blondie.  She’s the matriarch of tbe feral cat scene in my neck of the woods.  Shes about 7 years old.  She had two litters.  The first was Moo Cat and Scamp.  The second litter was Mick and Keef.  Me and Blondie spent 6 years hanging out together.  So of course I love her to pieces. And always will.
Blondie was a total feral cat.  I never once petted her in the 6 years I knew her.   She would come up to me, about a foot away from me. But we always respected the space between us.  She was a feral cat. She didn’t want to be touched.  But she waited for me every night at the foot of the trail that led to my campsite.  Cuz she wanted to be fed.  And for some strange reason I wanted to feed her.  Every night for 6 years I’d be hauling up cat food for her.

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.

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Cats are pretty smart when it comes to understanding human beings.  Blondie would often sit at her favorite spot right on the other side of the creek from my campsite.  She’d sit there for hours, sort of studying me.  Eventually, she’d head up the hill to the secret spot where she had her nest.  All the feral cats had their own special spot.  After eating they’d always head off in different directions.

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.

 

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Moo Cat would often pick fights with Blondie at feeding time.   She’d rush at Blondie, hissing and slashing at her face with her claws.  Blondie, of course, was always too quick.  She’d dodge the blows like Mohammad Ali.  She’d back off a few steps whenever Moo Cat attacked.  She’d never fight back but she’d always hold her ground.  She’d just give Moo Cat this look like:  “What is your problem, dude?  Can’t we just get along?  I’m just sitting here minding my own business doing my cat thing.  Get a grip.”

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.

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