Life has a way of throwing you curve balls.
Learning the challenges my neighbor across the street has faced over the last few years softened my stance on the feral cat living under his trailer. I took the wait and see approach, figuring the fox might outsmart the cat and make a meal of him or a passing car might take him out. Neither event happened.
I did take matters into my own hands early one misty morning when I witnessed him prowling, semi crouched, stealthily up along the bank of the driveway, entering the lilac bush from behind. The unsuspecting songbirds actively flying around the bird feeders out front.
Armed, I went outside with lethal intent. I approached the lilac bush from the wrong side, allowing the feral cat to escape. He darted for the garage, by the time I made my way over he was down the hill hidden somewhere in the tall grasses where the lawn ends.
We played the cat and mouse game one other time, with the same result. Work demands during the summer resulted in fewer mornings at home. Out of sight, out of mind. To my alarm, the next time I caught the feral black cat on my property, he had an orange tabby in tow. I cursed myself for not taken his presence more seriously.
Near the end of summer, I caught a glimpse of him crossing my office window. Seizing upon the opportunity, I quickly slipped on my loafers, grabbed my gun and quietly exited my house, walking softly to the edge of the garage. Stepping around the corner, I found him standing less than thirty feet away, out in the open! Surprised to find myself that close, I hesitated long enough for him to sense my presence. He did a quarter turn, craning his neck to cast a stare in my direction, revealing his entire side in the process. Neither one of us moved, both aware of the other.
His large green eyes locked on to mine. In that moment when I should have taken my shot, I lost my fortitude. He had grown. His stare and posture underscored that he was a wild cat, not a domesticated house pet. Like the squirrels I once killed to keep out of the feeders, but now accepted as part of the wildlife, I recognized that this bane of my life for the last five months fell into the same category.
I kept his stare for four or five seconds, then stepped back, and rounded the corner of the garage from whence I came, with the gun hanging down by my side.
Had I grown soft? What if he breeds and produces other feral cats? What are the consequences then?
I bandied these questions about in my head amongst others over the next couple of months. Ken, a friend of mine whose property I care-take during the winter, stopped in for a visit last month before going out west. Ken grew up in Colorado and is an accomplished artist. He paints landscapes and like me, he has an appreciation for songbirds and wildlife. I shared with Ken my dilemma.
From Ken's point of view, feral cats are territorial, which raises the question: If I kill the black feral cat, would I find myself in the same position again? Then what? Food for thought.
Ken knows he is on borrowed time. His lungs are dying. (Pulmonary fibrosis) Because of his weakened state, Ken enlisted my help in gathering pink granite rocks this past June. Short of breath, to the point where he needs to rest after walking a few steps uphill, Ken spent the entire summer building a birdbath in his front yard one stone at a time.
His words struck a cord with me. They contained wisdom that I lacked.
This morning I woke up, walked into the dining room and peered outside. Between the two staves from which I hang the birdfeeders, sitting upright, still as an Egyptian statue, was the black feral cat, gazing over his dominion.
(Picture of the two staves along with two bushy tail grey squirrels feeding on the seed mix I scattered on the ground.)
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