A Homeless Cat Finding a Home: Love Makes the Difference

Lynne K. Fukuda
Instructor of Anthropology
Central Texas College,
Schofield Barracks and Academic Advisor
Atlantic International University
Email:  lfukuda@hawaii.edu

Dedicated to all homeless animals and people too.  May they all find a loving home.  Let others help them to find love and belonging.  Let us cherish all animal life as they cherish us because they teach us so much in life. For all cats, big and small, may they have the safety and care that they deserve.  And for all animal lovers, who continue to enrich the lives of their pets and other creatures and those who share their lives.  Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, dear Readers.

            The heavy rains pounded on our island of Oahu this spring, phenomenal rains that our island had not experienced in over a century.  Streets and homes were flooded, creating rivers where they never existed.  Water pooled in places that were once dry, and streets looked like the canals of Venice. The skies were also gray; the rains cold and heavy.  It was during this time of continuous rains on an island that usually does not fail to produce a rainbow and gentle sunshine, that I met a homeless kitten

            He was not a stray.  He did not stray from home and get lost.  He was truly homeless, without family, love, and a sense of belonging.  Somehow, with his small body and immature brain, he managed to find sanctuary under our great round pine trees in my front yard and took sips of water from my two ponds in the dark of the night.  I did not know he lived in our garden until weeks later, when it was so cold and the rains were so harsh that I found him crying from cold and hunger.  He existed in my garden like a garden spirit, sitting in the shadows among my plants.        

            Hunger stabbing at his small stomach drew him out from under the pines in search of a source of food.  There were no lizards and birds during the heavy rains for him to catch.  The small creature did not approach me, frightened from months of being chased from home to home. He was an ugly, little black cat with stripes of some type.  I saw him cross my path and shuddered, but seeing how small and young he was, I looked closely when he stopped and sat still under the shelter of my garage roof.  And, like magic, two small tears fell out of his round, green eyes as if he wept like a human child.

            “Poor baby, it must be so hard for you, being a stray,” I said, bending to look at him. The rains pounded still on my heliconia leaves and on my banana leaves, creating a tapping noise in the background.  The water came in gushes from my roof like a small waterfall, and the grasses were damp and flooded, reminding me of a bog.

            I later told my mum about the cat in the garden, knowing that she liked animals, having had a menagerie as a child that included a cat, dog, canaries, chickens, rabbits, mice, silkworms, and even a goat kid. Her happiest childhood recollections always included her antics with her pets that had distinct personalities.  Some created great incidences in her otherwise peaceful childhood.

            “Don’t feed the cat; he must leave. We can’t keep cats; you know how you get really depressed when your pets die. It’s a great responsibility, besides. We cannot afford to keep him,” my mum said harshly.  Like many people, she was unwilling to adopt a stray cat, for there were too many.  And yet, our home, our garden at least, was large and open, unoccupied by other pets, with the exception of my goldfish and guppies.  It was a safe, peaceful haven for a small cat.

            I knew that my mother could not bear to see me mourn. When my guinea pig died in my early teen years, I mourned for a decade.  Even my dead betta yielded a funeral service and a proper burial.  The loss of my first cat, a stray, in my early childhood had also been terribly hard when he disappeared one day, perhaps hidden somewhere secret, as many cats are in the wild when they go off to die alone.

            “But Mum, he can live outside as he’s done these past weeks or months.  I can just feed him,” I negotiated, not wishing to let the kitten starve in our garden.  It seemed that after a few weeks, the cat remained in my garden most of the time.  Its source of food was limited to the offerings of snacks.

            “You have to move away some time for your work. What will you do? It will become attached to you. There are many places that don’t allow cats,” she replied, doing her best to give me advice.  She emphasized that it would be cruel to love the cat and then “abandon” it by leaving it behind with my parents when I moved away.

            “But he can stay here as he has since he first came here.”

            My mum looked at me suspiciously. “Have you been feeding the cat?”

            I shook my head. And yet, I had given out a few snacks now and then while I fed my fishes.  Balancing my budget carefully, I cut back on the more expensive fish food and fed my guppies the cheapest food available so that I had money to spare to buy the coveted kitty snacks.  I even played with the playful little kitten that only begged for companionship and took the treats on occasion. Someone else might have been feeding him, or he had solely survived on mice and birds that he captured in our garden.  I had seen a few carcasses in the past.

            Now the little kitten, more like a young teen-aged cat, with tears rolling from his eyes, was at my feet, looking up at me with the most miserable look I had ever seen.  I approached him, but he shrank away. His shoulders were narrow and thin, and a feeling of sadness encased him.  I almost heard him sigh as if giving up of ever having a warm, safe, loving home. I knew that the kitten lingered in my garden and on the sides of the house, as if longing to come inside.  He seemed to crave human company and huddled near our open windows in the night.

            I was at home most of this time during this period.  My students deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan so that I had no teaching job and having to work on my dissertation.  It was a dark, sad period in my life, when the rains began to flood away the bits of sunshine in my garden.  I spent each day in prayer, hoping for a better life for us all.  My friends, too, were having their little troubles with family, work, or with their health.  I was suddenly deprived of companionship outside of my own home.

            I met with the cat each day, playing with him and feeding him, sharing quiet companionship.  It was our little secret, while I pretended to feed my fish, to feed the little cat as well.  We played silently on the grass, while I dangled an object that he swung to get.  It seemed he laughed when he played.  He was affectionate and playful, very unlike my first cat, Mimi, that was born a stray and never became very affectionate, even with the passing of time.  Mimi merely came to eat his meals in my garden and left after paying homage to my mum by giving her a love-bite that would bleed. He was too wild and could not become a true pet. He did not like small children, which I certainly was at that time.  He would allow a few moments of petting and nothing more.

            This little cat, his bright green eyes shining, seemed to have a sense of humor. He watched my goldfish, Machew, in its tank but never dared to catch him as some cats will do, drank smelly water from my fishpond teeming with guppies, and sat about, watching me go about my chores as I hung the laundry, watered the garden, pulled weeds, swept the walkways and street, clipped the hedges, and did my never-ending tasks.

            It was nice to see the cat there each time, like a fixture in my garden, reminding me of the days when I took care of my nephew from babyhood to toddlerhood.  My nephew had been my constant companion as I stayed home in the daytime and worked only at night and online; he followed me like a shadow in the large garden that was also my parlor in the hot summers.

            I relaxed in my summer “parlor”, a shaded area with my lawn chair and table, sipping a drink and reading a book or working on my papers with my laptop.  And without fail, like a mysterious garden spirit, the dark cat would emerge from the bushes or from the dark pots that he blended with splendidly and greet me with his still-babyish mews.  He would pause and stay still, turning into a stone garden sculpture of a cat, then become animated with a new mew.

            “Hi there, little kid,” I said to the cat that was almost reaching adult size, and yet very kitten-like in behavior and in features. His face was round and his neck still thick and short.  When he bent down, he looked like a sleepy kitten that was awakened from his nap.  His ears were unusually large and pointed as was his chin, making him look more like a desert fox than a cat.  I began to feel affection towards the cat.

            Soon, the name stuck.  He was officially called Kid from then on. “It’s only you and me, Kid,” I wanted to say, half-mimicking the famous words Humphrey Bogart said to Ingrid Bergman in the movie Casablanca, which is one of my great favorites.

            And it was so. It was truly myself and Kid against the world sometimes and continues so until this day.  More than any other pet I adopted, I found myself struggling to keep this little abandoned cat that no one wanted, that everyone chased, and some feared as a harbinger of bad fortune as a “black cat” (including myself).

            “There are so many strays; we have to get rid of them,” some of my acquaintances would say coldly.  “They have so many kittens and ruin the natural course of things.”  Hawaii is an island with many native species that are defenseless against predators.  Many feared the multiplying numbers of feral cats would destroy the island ecosystem. And yet, it seemed cruel to blame the destruction of the environment on cats when humans were far worse, being more destructive by developing large areas of land without regard to native species and bringing in introduced species without much forethought until the red light went on, alerting them to the dangers a new species brought to our native ecosystem. Thankfully, there was no rabies in the islands, making our feral cats safe to one another and to humans as well.

            I wanted to say, “But who brought them here?  Was it not humans who would bring cats to an island with no land mammals hundreds of years before?”

            Being an animal lover, I believed all animal life was sacred.  I had worked with animals ranging from reptiles to sea mammals to primates. I could not believe that there were many cruel people who believed in killing animals because they were simply in the way. If cats were homeless, they should be neutered or spayed and allowed to live out their short lives.  I also believed that fate brought certain pets to my home.  My mother was an example.  Her own cat and dog came on their own as young animals.  Her cat came from a home full of children that often unwittingly abused it.  Being a cat and living outside, she naturally snubbed her old family and set out in search of a new master.  My mother’s dog too came from a family that did not treat him right.  He too broke loose and found a haven in my mother’s home.

            The cat and dog came at the same time, becoming siblings, the she-cat, and a Persian mix, being more dominant over the male dog.  They became companions, playing and fighting one another.  When my mother went off to school, they escorted her in the morning to the school gates, and when school let out, they arrived at the same time each day to greet her and walk her home.

            My mother’s pet was a goat kid who followed her home from the greengrocers.  It seemed to find a mother in my mum and did not want to go anywhere else.  It was probably abandoned in the turmoil of the war in Japan, but after my mother raised it for almost a year, an “owner” mysteriously appeared to claim it, and the grown kid was taken away, perhaps, to be roasted by the man and his family for a feast.

            My cat, too, found a home by himself.  Bravely, as a kitten, he searched through the neighborhood for a safe home.  Many of my neighbors, although kind to cats, had their own dogs, which probably scared a kitten.  He must have traveled on his small, short legs, cold and hungry and sometimes wet from the terrible rains, mewing and begging for food along the way.  Finally, he found a large garden with trees, ponds with fish, abundant wild birds, plants of all types, and three quiet, older people in a large house.

            At first, the inhabitants of the house chased him, not liking a strange, black cat that was obviously a stray, but somehow, the kitten lingered.  He slept by day beneath the large pine trees that gave shelter from the wind and rain and provided him a bed of soft pine needles.  There was an occasional wild bird that was easily caught since there was an abundance of plants with seeds and fruits.  The ponds had fish and available water. 

            Yet, the kitten craved companionship.  He heard voices in the large house.  He smelled food cooking in the kitchens and missed the bright lights of an inhabited house. He rested in the light that leaked into the garden from the windows.  At night he crept out to drink water in the ponds and wander in the gardens, climbing the walls and exploring.

            Finally, one of the inhabitants, a woman with short, dark hair, came to offer him snacks.  He took it gratefully and always played with her.  He jumped out to greet her when she called out to her goldfish, Machew.

            “Machew,” she would yell, fearing that, each morning, she would find her precious goldfish dead from mysterious causes. The woman suffered from terrible fears, one being that her pet would die suddenly.

            The kitten heard her call and believed that she called out to him, since she offered him snacks as soon as he jumped out to greet her. “Here, have some snacks,” she would say, leading him to a distant area away from the goldfish tank, fearing that the cat would decide that Machew was a more delectable morsel than her kitty snacks.
 
            Thus, the friendship began.  He wanted to go into a house but was left outside when night fell.  He tried a few times to enter the home but was chased away.  Disappointed, he accepted the fact and slept near the door each time, watching the inhabitants turn off the lights before turning into bed.

            One day, the woman who called him Kid was eating some dried cuttlefish. The smell attracted him and made him jump out of the bushes to investigate.

            “Aack,” the dark-haired woman said. “He’s coming after me.”

            Kid put up his paws on her knees and begged for a taste.

            “Okay, okay,” she said laughing, handing him a few morsels.

            He liked the taste and loves it to this day.  It is his reward for good behavior.  After tasting bitter medicine it is his treat.  He will eat it even if he is not feeling well.

            The kitten, an ugly black-gray color, scrawny from malnutrion, began to develop into a beautiful cat.  With love and proper care, he began to become the beautiful cat that he really was.  His fur became longer, his coat more dark and rich, and soon, his ears sprouted white tufts that stuck out from the sides. His tail too, grew long hair that made his once skinny tail into a bushy one.  His new family found that he had more talents.  Not only had he survived his late kittenhood alone in the wild by hunting mice and birds, but he was also quick and intelligent. He learned new words and commands quickly, seemed to understand some things they asked of him.  He loved playing with the light reflected on the grass by the CD disc swinging from a bush.  He leapt up high as if in joy and spent hours playing alone.

            Finally, after being examined for fleas and being free of pests, he was allowed into the house that he so coveted.  He walked over the plush, copper-orange carpet, sat on the cool tile and rested on the sofa, finally, finding sanctuary beneath the dark area under the tablecloth-covered dining table and soft, padded chair. He signed and took a nap.

            “Mum, I think he was a housecat.  Remember, Mimi never wanted to come into the house, and if he did, he soon left after a few minutes. He was so claustrophobic,” I said to my mum.

            My mother nodded. “I’ve had a few cats.  He is different.  No true stray would go into a house and remain there for such a long time.  He seems familiar with the inside of a house and doesn’t scratch furniture or chew on cords.”

            Having only part-time work and still working on my dissertation, I was living below the poverty line, barely surviving on my student loans.  I was forced to move back to live at my parents’ home in Central Oahu.  I knew that having a pet would add more to my financial burden, and yet, I also knew that the kitten needed a home full of love.  I did not chase him from my garden for he was already a fixture there.  Every time I sat in my private outdoor parlor to relax, he was there, stealing a few naps in the safety of my presence.  When I went about my work in the garden, he was there like one of my little nephews, following close for safety and companionship.

            “I don’t really like cats, especially black cats. Everyone thinks they’re bad luck,” I said to my friends.  “He looks like a witch’s cat, and maybe if I adopted him, I would be an old witch.”

            My friends laughed.  Some of my friends who liked cats told me of the joys of having a cat.  Others told me how nasty strays really were.  I did not know, and yet, it was already too late, I had adopted the little, dark bundle of fur into my heart.

            I looked for him each day, his dark figure materializing like magic from the shadows or from my black pots.  It was strange how everything in the garden seemed to resemble this little cat as I searched for him.  I saw green eyes staring at me from the bushes and from my potted plants. Even the dark shapes in the shadows resembled a small cat.

            Already, my father had adopted this little cat.  He called to it and fed him tidbits of dried cuttlefish that was my father’s favorite and was now a treasured morsel by the cat.  My mother made space for the cat while hanging up the laundry, calling to it as if it were a little grandchild.  I made a spot near the screened patio door, placing a newly made cotton rug I knitted for Christmas. I had not decided to whom it would go to, but it somehow found a spot next to the screen door.

            The cat, whom I named Kid, loved the rug.  He would find the spot and lie on it for hours, napping luxuriously on it as his once short, ugly fur grew into a luxurious, smoky covering. I was overjoyed by his enthusiasm.  Never had any person or creature appreciated my handiwork as this cat did.  He preferred the hand-made rug to anything else, even a soft towel.  He found it comfortable and soft, permeated with my scent from having knitted it for many evenings. With a new collar, he seemed as if he had always belonged to our house.

            “Hey, Mum, he has my hair,” I said laughing.  My hair, once reddish brown in youth was now dyed black with red highlights, but stubborn white hair remained beneath the dark strands. Kid’s hair too was this way, with a white underhair that was soft as down, and long, stronger dark strands that were reddish at the tip and lustrous, reminding me of oriental hair. 

            He watched TV with my dad and napped with my mum.  He worked in the garden beside me, himself being in charge of pest extermination.  It seemed that Kid’s presence brought family harmony.  We were all relaxed and ceased to raise our voices for fear of waking the napping cat.  We called out to the cat as if to a small child, sweet nothings and petted him.  Rats, cockroaches, and the numerous pest-like pigeons in our garden soon disappeared in numbers.  Kid was earning his keep.

            One day, after I finally received pet insurance for Kid, he fell seriously ill.  He became less active, he slept more, and he lost weight after refusing to eat for three days.  Thankfully, I was able to take him to the vet quickly.  I dreamt the night before the visit, when he lay besides me on my bed, that he was bleeding from the mouth and deathly pale.  I jumped out of bed and, the very next morning, told my mum. 

            “I had a terrible dream,” I told her.  My fear of losing loved ones too early, sudden deaths were triggered by true events.  I lost many close friends too early.  Even my pets did not live out their lifespan in spite of the best care and love we provided.  My heart beat rapidly, mimicking a panic attack.  “Please don’t let him die,” I prayed. It was not fair.  My friends and family had loved ones who lived out their long lives and owned pets that lived unusually long lives, but it seemed my loved ones, furry or not, seemed to have a habit of expiring early.

            When I took Kid to the vet, my dream was close to reality. Kid had a fever and an intestinal infection caused by parasites. The hookworms had caused internal bleeding.  He also had a case of feline herpes (not transmissible to humans) that cause constant tearing in his eyes.

            “You have a very sick cat,” the vet said, shaking his head.

            I nodded. “He lived outside early in his life….I was only able to tame him enough recently to bring him here.  He’s been living on mice and birds.”

            “A good source of parasites,” the vet said.

            At the veterinary clinic, another thing emerged.  At first, lacking the obvious appearance of males, we believed Kid to be a girl.  And later, we discovered that he was a neutered male, the procedure done when he was very young.  Someone had loved Kid very much early in life and neutered him and house-trained him, and yet, abandoned him.  Sometimes, when he slept, I saw the sadness seep into his being, as if he were afraid of yet another rejection.

            Kid recovered fully after three months of thorough treatment for his infection and parasites and a battery of vaccinations.  His fur became longer and more luxurious, requiring frequent brushing.  He ate several times and day and began to learn many new rules of living in a house along with going into the garden.

            It was during this time that one of our neighbors began to collect white pigeons, building a large pigeon coop.  It was great temptation for our cat, who was a great hunter.  The neighbor was also involved in shady business, and I feared for my cat’s life as he wandered throughout the neighborhood.  Then, the shady neighbors began to threaten Kid’s life. Once, I overheard them discussing how they would capture the cat and toss it to their three dogs. 

            “Heh, heh,” one of them laughed. “Then we can see what this cat does.”

            On another occasion, I witnessed the neighbor trying to snatch Kid off our wall, which is built inside of our boundary lines, and attempt to toss him into their garden.  They only stopped, noticing me watching them with angry eyes.  I said nothing but noted the incident, promising revenge if it happened again.

            A few days later, another incident occurred. “I’m gonna kill your cat,” the dark, cruel neighbor said to me as he drove past while I watered the front garden.

            I shuddered and recoiled, recalling his dark, sinister look.  I received two more threats and lived in fear that one day I would find an abandoned microchip ID tag in our neighborhood and a missing cat.  I defended Kid as best I could, filing a report with the police.  The nasty neighbor harassed me personally a forth time a few weeks later, and I had a case to file such a report. And yet, I learned that there was very little I could do to protect Kid other than to convert him into a full-time housecat, which he failed miserably at each attempt.

            Our once prosperous neighborhood was now overrun by drug-dealers and criminal-types that had more money to pay for the expensive homes on our street.  It was typical to hear the late-night activities on our streets as they made their drug-runs or received intermittent customers.  I saw men shooting up with heroin in their dirty trucks; I saw young customers smoking glass pipes on certain nights.

            The obvious lack of morals and a conscience, the tendency to behave cruelly to animals is a mere reflection of the disintegration of our once safe neighborhood.  I dreamed of the days when I was a child, when a cat was free to roam from home to home, petted and fed by all, treasured by most children and a fixture in every garden with or without a dog.  I missed the quiet neighborhood in Puerto Rico too, where I once worked.  It was there that the median income of its inhabitants was considerably below the poverty line and yet cats and dogs were valued and fed by all, bits of scraps in spite of having little to eat.  I sorely missed that love, that generous spirit when my neighbors had more space for creatures of all types as well as for the neighborhood children.

            “I want to move back to the Big Island (Hawaii island),” I told my mum repeatedly.  It was there that I had wonderful neighbors and friends.  Cats roamed freely and safely in the country environment.  Even my favorite aunt and my cousin in Hilo fed stray cats that adopted their home as their home base.  Beautiful kittens emerged each season, only to be fed and loved.  They died young and naturally, succumbing to the damp and various illness, but having had a free and happy life.

            I was determined more than ever to make my move back to my beloved island. Oahu had become a nest of crime, where crystal-meth was the common drug of choice. Violence of all types: killing, deaths, accidents, and many other frightening results occurred because of this drug.  The Big Island also has drug-addicts and drug-trade, but it is not as prevalent as it is on Oahu, where the high population, nearing a million on a small island, pushed its limits.

            I sometimes wonder why humans are so imperfect, having grown up seeing animal families.  Animal parents, ever devoted, sometimes even to the death, sacrifice their short lives to spawn, defend eggs or nestlings, or to raise their young to maturity.  They face danger and death, and yet, they continue their ageless struggle to leave progeny behind. I wish that, for once, humans could learn from their animal relatives how to become better parents, better neighbors, and better humans.

            It was the animals that taught me how to become a better parental figure, loving and protecting a small creature from harm.  It was an animal that taught me responsibility, the capacity for unconditional love, and the ability for healing.  It was domesticated animals that created a bridge in my childhood between myself and wild animals, and instilled in myself a deep respect and love for wild creatures.  How poor we would be without domesticated animals to fill our sometimes impoverished lives.

            “I want a home with a garden, even a townhouse with a small enclosure to live with Kid,” I told my mum.  What I craved was a safe haven as my garden had been to Kid.  I wanted a home in a neighborhood where there was love and belonging.  I wanted to wake up each morning to be greeted by a beautiful sight of plants and flowers and have a place where animals lived harmoniously with humans.

            Our home in mid-summer was in the high nineties with no air-conditioning.  The weather was clear and the air was much cooler in my shaded garden.  Unlike the U.S. mainland, Hawaii does not have harsh weather and is warm all year round.  Thus, there are many cats with owners who allow their cats to be outside cats, free to roam about.

            Unlike dogs, cats jump and climb on high places.  Kid did a Houdini attempt on his harness and even broke out of his breakaway collar in an attempt to escape being on a lease.  When punished, he cowered miserably under the spare bed and refused to eat or to use the litter box.  “You have been very bad, bad,” I scolded, feeling sadly for a defenseless creature, which only behaved as he did naturally.

            Our garden had a high wall, but for Kid, an expert climber, it was not an adequate enclosure.  I sprayed cat-repellant on the walls in an attempt to discourage him, and yet, he sniffed at it disdainfully and climbed up anyway.  “Pooh, this will not discourage me.  It just stinks for a few moments,” he seemed to say, waving his long, bushy tail. He was a brave little cat.  Once, hunting the various lizards that lived in our garden, he stuck his head in a thorn bush and had a thorn sticking out of his ear with no obvious feelings of pain.  He jumped from great heights without fear and entered gardens with dogs without blinking an eye.

            Yet, one day, Kid was to surprise me once more.  After feeling resentful that Kid did not obey my commands as a dog would, he showed me how much loyalty he felt toward our family.  A dog that ran loose in our neighborhood entered our front garden and Kid tried his best with his small body to chase it out.  My dad watched in horror as Kid struck at the dog, claws scratching, and his slim body arching.  The dog, a small collie, turned and left our garden after I swung my broom at it. The dog seemed shaken and surprised by his feline opponent.

            Months later, after rigorous but not harsh training, I have a well-trained cat.  Although he is allowed to roam free, he avoids going into the nasty neighbor’s garden and does not harass the caged pigeons.  He seems to know where his boundaries are.  Instead of roaming the neighborhood as he used to, he amuses himself on hot days of summer and the approaching autumn in the front garden, resting and hiding beneath the grape vines, and leaping out when the opportunity appears to chase another bird.  He is more like a housecat with an extended outdoor parlor, pleasing himself with my wild garden full of exotic plants and fishes, with pond and deep, cool shades.

            He comes when he is called, and sleeps when I sleep, sometimes telling me by mewing insistently when it is late at night that he is sleepy and wishes to turn in.  I rub my eyes and join my bedmate, ready for a good nights rest. He is my constant companion, looking over my shoulders when I work at my computer for my work and my writing.  He is my inspiration to try my best when I hit an obstacle.  He is my encouraging presence, bringing me comfort when my fears emerge or I am feeling blue.

            I am not naturally a cat-lover, but I have never owned a pet that gave me so much heartache or scary moments or such joy.  I have never met a pet that was so versatile and interesting.  I know that my Christmas present this year is Kid, my little witch’s cat.  Sometimes I can almost swear that he laughs in his sleep.  I know he dreams, and sometimes he smiles.  But he no longer cries tears, his condition cured and cleared.

            Perhaps, it was not feline herpes or an allergy, but pure sadness at being thrown out into the streets that brought on those magical tears.  He even growls like a dog when strangers approach, and he quickly places his small, skinny body in front of mine as if to defend me.  After witnessing how Kid defended our home against an intruding dog, I no longer question the obedience or loyalty of my pet.

            Someday, if I have to move to a big city, Kid will become a housecat and walk with a leash, but for now, I cannot bear to trade his freedom to roam in our garden, chasing birds and lizards and exterminating mice and roaches.  I still dream, however, of moving to a place with a large garden, where Kid will have all the space to call his very own.  And yet Kid already has a large space in my heart that he calls his own, and he finds it to be his true home.

            Kid is no longer a small, malnourished, lonely cat. He is muscular and strong, large and heavy for his age.  His fur is a luxurious coat that is long and fancy. I have many compliments from friends and acquaintances that see him and marvel at his beauty. But, to me, he is my most wonderful cat.  Like Felix, the wonderful, wonderful cat, a black cat, Kid did wonders for my once lonely life.  Like many generations of cats before him, he brings comfort and a sense of home to those who need such a small, gentle creature that is at once beautiful, and yet so practical to have in a household.  A great mouser, a great companion, a cat fills the void where a dog sometimes cannot due to restricted quarters or other conditions.  They are relatively low-maintenance, and yet, are there to provide the adopter with friendship and warmth.  They are found to be great at healing the sick, those who suffer from mental disorders, and are great in teaching children love and responsibility without too many mishaps.  They bring hope and instill faith in those who are suffering.  They create more natural environments for those who live in cold, concrete urban areas.

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