For the past two years or so, I have been feeding a little white and brown feral cat. She was clearly a runt, but an athletic one; we used to see her on the roof of our house quite regularly. She had a strange little face, so our first name for her was basically "The Weird-Faced Cat." My husband said she looked like a gremlin, so I started calling her Gizmo.
So, as I said, I started feeding her. And I made a little shelter for her year before last when it got cold. This spring, she finally decided to let me pet her. She wouldn't let me do it all of the time, but every now and then she would trot up to me, angle her back end towards me, and let me scratch the sweet spot in front of her tail. This summer, when I would sit on the deck, she would sidle up to me and lean against my back. She would sleep on the driveway and in an old concrete planter and wherever else she wanted to.
To my great sadness, my husband came home last Tuesday to find her dead in the driveway. It seems the neighbor's dog had gotten out, and following its nature, killed her. It has been very hard for me. I was accustomed to feeding all of the cats (Cleo and Dustin inside and Gizmo outside) each morning and evening. Gizmo would frequently tell me she was hungry by looking in the french doors to the living room. She was a sweet, tiny cat, with a funny personality, and I keep thinking of how scared she must have been when the dog attacked her. It's been hard, and I wish I could say it was getting easier, but it isn't. I miss that little face at the window, and I miss feeding her. It just seems so unfair that she lived through everything else for three or more years but couldn't escape the dog.
Any words of wisdom would be welcome.
So, as I said, I started feeding her. And I made a little shelter for her year before last when it got cold. This spring, she finally decided to let me pet her. She wouldn't let me do it all of the time, but every now and then she would trot up to me, angle her back end towards me, and let me scratch the sweet spot in front of her tail. This summer, when I would sit on the deck, she would sidle up to me and lean against my back. She would sleep on the driveway and in an old concrete planter and wherever else she wanted to.
To my great sadness, my husband came home last Tuesday to find her dead in the driveway. It seems the neighbor's dog had gotten out, and following its nature, killed her. It has been very hard for me. I was accustomed to feeding all of the cats (Cleo and Dustin inside and Gizmo outside) each morning and evening. Gizmo would frequently tell me she was hungry by looking in the french doors to the living room. She was a sweet, tiny cat, with a funny personality, and I keep thinking of how scared she must have been when the dog attacked her. It's been hard, and I wish I could say it was getting easier, but it isn't. I miss that little face at the window, and I miss feeding her. It just seems so unfair that she lived through everything else for three or more years but couldn't escape the dog.
Any words of wisdom would be welcome.
