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Losing her a year ago, at the age of twenty-three, I had a cat whom I had taken in as a feral cat. She was born feral, in the porch of a vacant house next to an ambulance station I was working at. A couple of our medics discovered the kittens only after a couple of stray dogs had killed all but two of the kittens in the litter, and run the mom off. They boarded the porch up so that the cats could get in and out but the dogs couldn't get back in.
By then, the two kittens were probably a month old, a little smaller than four kittens that I had at home at the same time, so I estimated them to be roughly the same age. I couldn't take them in because, counting my own four kittens, I had six cats in the house, and was afraid of becoming one of those people you read about in the newspaper.
I fed them every day, and their mom eventually returned. She was ferocious in her determination that her kittens not be turned into pets, and because I knew I couldn't take them in, I left food for them every day but otherwise left them alone.
As they grew older, the mom left and the kitten ventured outdoors, particularly when someone was barbecuing or when the neighbor on the other side of our station was cleaning fish.
Very slowly, I made friends with the two young cats. At first they wouldn't come near me, even for food, waiting for me to throw it to them. Eventually, they came closer and closer, then creeping up to me and trying to knock the food out of my hand.
In time, one of them would jump up on my lap, but would hiss at me if I tried to touch her, but her sister wouldn't come any closer than to take something out of my hand.
The one that had become the friendliest was killed in traffic, so there was just the other, whom I named Bird. That's another story.
Bird also began jumping up on my lap if I were sitting outdoors, but she would sit stiffly, and if I touched her, she would sometimes lash out, leaving my hand bleeding, before jumping down. Then she was either angry, or afraid that I'd be angry because she had scratched me, and I wouldn't see her for a while. Eventually though, she would come up on my lap even when I didn't have food, and she would seem to enjoy sitting there, although she never relaxed.
She became our station kitty, although she wouldn't come indoors. When I was not on duty, or when I was working out of another station, our other medics would feed her, but none were able to make friends with her. Our other medics would tell me that she would be waiting whenever an ambulance came in, and then walk away disappointed if I wasn't in it. When I was inside the station, she would sit on the outside of the window nearest me.
I moved near to that station, and she found me, coming to my house when I wasn't on duty, and would even come indoors when it was cold or wet outside. This was in Texas, near the Mexican border, so really cold nights were rare. By then, I had adopted two of my own kittens out, and decided to keep the two black ones, mostly because there is a lot of superstition about black cats so near the Mexican border. My cats hated her, and never really got over that, although they eventually arrived at an uneasy truce.
When I sold my half of the ambulance company to my partner and moved to Maine, she was nearly ten. She still did not like to be petted, and would never relax on my lap, but liked to be there nevertheless. She would let me pick her up, and would rarely strike out at me, although she didn't hesitate to make it known when she was thinking about it.
We took her with us, and tried to make her a house cat. When she didn't have access to the outdoors, she would go wild, acting the way she no doubt felt, like a caged animal. Our house in Maine had a large back yard that faced a railroad track that was no longer in operation, she we made her an indoor-outdoor kitty, which suited her fine. So long as she had options, she was content to remain indoors most of the time, particularly given our Maine winters.
I know I took a long time getting there but, to get back on topic, I made a point of trying to get her more accustomed to getting petted. The instinct to lash out never left her, although she was nearly always able to restrain herself.
When I was petting her, she would clearly enjoy it. Purring loudly, she would rub the side of her head and neck on me, but then, all of a sudden, sometimes before I was able to see it coming, she would lash out. It was as if she were feeling, I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it, I CAN'T STAND IT!
After lashing out at me, she would run away into another room, then return shortly after to rub against my leg, as if apologizing.
I lost her at the age of twenty-three. She wasn't the sort of cat that you could have around children, but I'm always up to a challenge, and I loved her.
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