I have an old story I like to tell about how we came to have cats:
Long after our children were grown and gone, we still had 2 of their aging dogs, as well as two cats we took in when my wife's parents moved to a location that prohibited pets. My wife loves cats, but is extremely allergic to them (and, to a lesser extent, to dogs). So our pets moved outdoors, and lived out their lives in peace - but with little human interaction. We decided that after they were gone, we would not have any more 4-legged pets.
About 10 years later, we were enjoying a sunny afternoon on our patio, when my wife spotted some cats in our greenhouse (it still had a pet door in the side, for our former pets). Turns out there were 4 starving, half-blind, abandoned kittens! We took them in, made a bed from a large storage tub, and fed them from those little miniature baby bottles and some kitten formula. They thrived, and as soon as they were old enough, we took the tub into the nearest veterinary clinic. The vet saw the tub, and asked what was inside. I said "4 kittens". He asked "and why are they here?", and I replied "because we don't want 40!" So they were all fixed, and got the first of their series of shots, and we took them home. As soon as they were strong enough, we took them back outside, and bought our first (of several, it turns out) hopper-fed pet-food dishes.
Pretty soon, we notice a lot more than 4 growing kittens partaking of this bounty (we were, after all, feeding them the most expensive food on the planet!). Gradually, I was able to befriend each of them, one-at-a-time, to the point where I could pick each one up, place him/her into the pet carrier, and off we'd go to the clinic. The vet got to know me and my "project", and learned of my desire to - someday - capture "old Tom", the patriarch of this ferral clan. The vet had originally kept me to a strict schedule: between 10 am and noon, Tuesdays or Thursdays, to bring them in. He later told me that if I were to ever catch Tom, to call him at home and he'd come in, any hour or day, and help old Tom.
One morning, as I went out to the patio in my robe for a quick puff on my pipe before showering, I notice Tom slinking out of the pet carrier - turns out he had commandeered it for his bed! That evening, I stopped at the store for some cheap, smelly canned cat food. I crumbled some of it near the door to the pet carrier, and placed the can inside at the rear, and waited. Sure enough, along came Tom. I sat there seemingly oblivious to his approach, and as soon as he was almost entirely inside the carrier, I nudged the door shut. I expected a horrendous howl and a fitful attempt to escape, but he just emitted a single quiet meow every now and then as we made our way to the clinic.
The next day, the vet told me he had not only 'fixed' old Tom, and given him his shots, but had also extracted some rotted teeth and taken care of various and sundry other infections "on the house"! Upon release, Tom was just as shy (but no more so than before), and I'm happy to say that he lived out the remainder of his days and years well-fed, as healthy as age and infirmity allowed, and as happy as his newfound celibacy allowed. He finally passed last summer, and I actually got to touch him just prior...
By now, we've befriended and cared for about a dozen ferral cats, and in the past 4 or 5 seasons, we've had no more additions. Some of them run to greet me when I come home, and/or twirl about my ankles like a house-cat whenever I go outside for a smoke. All will let me pet them; some will tolerate being picked up and cuddled - if ever so briefly.
My original goal was to get them each fixed and vaccinated, and then try to adopt them out. But I learned from our local coalition / rescue folks that they would only assist with adoptions of 'indoor cats'. So once again we've decided to let them live out their lives in our back yard / greenhouse, knowing they are healthy and well-fed, and with lots of playmates.
p.s. Did I tell you I've never liked cats?
Long after our children were grown and gone, we still had 2 of their aging dogs, as well as two cats we took in when my wife's parents moved to a location that prohibited pets. My wife loves cats, but is extremely allergic to them (and, to a lesser extent, to dogs). So our pets moved outdoors, and lived out their lives in peace - but with little human interaction. We decided that after they were gone, we would not have any more 4-legged pets.
About 10 years later, we were enjoying a sunny afternoon on our patio, when my wife spotted some cats in our greenhouse (it still had a pet door in the side, for our former pets). Turns out there were 4 starving, half-blind, abandoned kittens! We took them in, made a bed from a large storage tub, and fed them from those little miniature baby bottles and some kitten formula. They thrived, and as soon as they were old enough, we took the tub into the nearest veterinary clinic. The vet saw the tub, and asked what was inside. I said "4 kittens". He asked "and why are they here?", and I replied "because we don't want 40!" So they were all fixed, and got the first of their series of shots, and we took them home. As soon as they were strong enough, we took them back outside, and bought our first (of several, it turns out) hopper-fed pet-food dishes.
Pretty soon, we notice a lot more than 4 growing kittens partaking of this bounty (we were, after all, feeding them the most expensive food on the planet!). Gradually, I was able to befriend each of them, one-at-a-time, to the point where I could pick each one up, place him/her into the pet carrier, and off we'd go to the clinic. The vet got to know me and my "project", and learned of my desire to - someday - capture "old Tom", the patriarch of this ferral clan. The vet had originally kept me to a strict schedule: between 10 am and noon, Tuesdays or Thursdays, to bring them in. He later told me that if I were to ever catch Tom, to call him at home and he'd come in, any hour or day, and help old Tom.
One morning, as I went out to the patio in my robe for a quick puff on my pipe before showering, I notice Tom slinking out of the pet carrier - turns out he had commandeered it for his bed! That evening, I stopped at the store for some cheap, smelly canned cat food. I crumbled some of it near the door to the pet carrier, and placed the can inside at the rear, and waited. Sure enough, along came Tom. I sat there seemingly oblivious to his approach, and as soon as he was almost entirely inside the carrier, I nudged the door shut. I expected a horrendous howl and a fitful attempt to escape, but he just emitted a single quiet meow every now and then as we made our way to the clinic.
The next day, the vet told me he had not only 'fixed' old Tom, and given him his shots, but had also extracted some rotted teeth and taken care of various and sundry other infections "on the house"! Upon release, Tom was just as shy (but no more so than before), and I'm happy to say that he lived out the remainder of his days and years well-fed, as healthy as age and infirmity allowed, and as happy as his newfound celibacy allowed. He finally passed last summer, and I actually got to touch him just prior...
By now, we've befriended and cared for about a dozen ferral cats, and in the past 4 or 5 seasons, we've had no more additions. Some of them run to greet me when I come home, and/or twirl about my ankles like a house-cat whenever I go outside for a smoke. All will let me pet them; some will tolerate being picked up and cuddled - if ever so briefly.
My original goal was to get them each fixed and vaccinated, and then try to adopt them out. But I learned from our local coalition / rescue folks that they would only assist with adoptions of 'indoor cats'. So once again we've decided to let them live out their lives in our back yard / greenhouse, knowing they are healthy and well-fed, and with lots of playmates.
p.s. Did I tell you I've never liked cats?