A New Feline Friend?

When my folks bought this property years ago, the previous owners had abandoned two cats that we took responsibility for because it would have been unkind to do otherwise.  There was one we called Dash (because that's what he did best:  run away) and the other we called TUC (The Unknown Cat:  we knew we were feeding a second cat but it was years before we ever actually saw what he looked like because he avoided us so).  Dash eventually disappeared but TUC, after a decade on the run, finally became a much-loved kitty and we were devastated when he died of old age. 

But, before TUC went to his eternal reward, he bought us his wife and her kittens:  Gracie (a Russian Blue; ie Gray C[at]) and her three sons, Tiger (Maine Coon mix), Boris (in need of a tough name as the runt of the litter), and Bubba (dumb as a rock, poor dear, but a very good brother).  We cared for them all of their lives, too.

And there have been many, many, many others because people have had the awful habit of dumping unwanted animals in this neighborhood and many of them (mainly cats but also dogs, a rooster, geese, ducks, fowl, even a horse) have found their way to my door.  But it is most often the cats I've been able to care for:  Ebenezer and Moon and three following generations of their family.  Then there were Tinker, Winnie Esmeralda, Genevieve, Tom Good and Tuppence Dear, Peck, Ira Haze, Texas.....many, many, many.  I quit counting but I didn't quit naming.  Every cat needs to be called something, and the name should be kind wherever possible.

For the past couple of years, a pair of brother cats have been marauding the neighborhood and they've mainly pestered my good neighbors.  They call them the "beige" cats--true enough, they are beige.  I suspect that they are sons of Henry the Navigator, a lynx point Siamese who wandered the local landscape but never found a mooring.  Certainly the brothers bear some of the markers of the breed.

The good neighbors' cat Smokey and their new puppy Sandy are very accepting of one of the brothers but not the other.  The second brother is crippled in a hind leg and he fights viciously with any other animal--and reasonably so, if you think about it, because he has to work harder to protect himself, so he offends rather than defends.  Gotta admire a cat who makes the first strike to distract others from noticing he's in a poor position to win. 

Siamese were originally bred (as I understand it) to be temple guardians.  They are fierce fighters, even more than many cats are.  So the crippled kitty is within the breed profile as well as being within common sense of self-defense.  The neighbors call him Gimpy.

When I was talking to Mrs. neighbor the other day, she happened to mention that Gimpy was creating serious havoc with the puppy who utterly despises him (while casually ignoring his healthy brother).  That's when I admitted to Mrs. neighbor that I had, on a few occasions, put food out for the crippled kitty.  Now my good neighbors have mentioned that they would prefer I did not feed strays, so I have respected that wish and I have not fed any since they took my Texas to the pound (yes, he was being overly aggressive for territory and I did agree to this).  But I had not been able to ignore this lame beige kitty whom I'd find hungrily hunting through the vegetable peelings I toss into the undergrowth, so I took him a bowl of kibble sometimes.

Surprisingly this born-feral kitty seems somewhat calm with me.  At various times (even when not offering food) I have spoken to him and have made the appropriate feline signs of respect and liking.  He has never come near.  But he does happily empty the kibble bowl after he feels sure that I've walked far enough away.  Even more surprising is the fact that Mrs. neighbor approved of me taking over with this cat, so I agreed to make a project of him.

No pictures yet; that will take awhile.  Very probably a very long while, if ever.  I don't know if I can help this kitty.  But I do know one thing for certain:  I absolutely cannot and will not call him a derogatory name.  So, the other day, the crippled kitty became Byron (a name that seems apt if you know anything about the famous poet).  And, you know what, the cat approves.  When I speak that name, he lifts his head and looks me right in the eye. 

Welcome, Byron.
Life is good.
Let's hope it gets even better.