How does one measure cruelty? And when it comes to animals, does outrage stem from the depth of the cruelty or is the cruelty enough within itself to warrant condemnation?
I stepped outside a few moments ago with a small bowl of kibble, a bit of replenishing stock to fill the revolving trough of cat food that I once again keep outside.
Both Psiwa and Clance returned to these shores but a month or so ago, neither of whom had I seen for quite some time.
Living where so much nature and civilization meld together in dangerous combinations, I feared for both of them, feared for what had become of two very sweet and innocent souls.
Yet when the raft of life once more deposited them upon the beach of my existence, I fell prey to that tenderness they share with me, that comradeship they offer with beautiful regularity.
So I noticed when outside a bit earlier that the food supply had grown thin. Only a handful of nuggets remained where a veritable feast had been placed just this morning.
No sooner had I stepped through the door when at the corner of the patio I noticed a ginger bit of fluff caught mid-stride, eyes watching me carefully.
Then it spoke.
I responded.
It spoke again.
Feeling it must be hungry with its stark outline revealing the need for sustenance, I shook the plastic bowl and let the nourishment dance inside, the sound of it recognizable to any canine or feline who grew up being provided for by humans.
Immediately the cat brightened, cheer washing over its face as it ran to my location, pausing briefly on the other side of the fence, speaking the whole time.
I knew then the poor cat was someone’s friend—had been a friend rather.
Despite its wounded eye and worn coat, despite its thin body pleading for victuals, the constant vocalizations told me my newest guest trusted people, missed its previous home, recognized a caring person.
I grabbed a handful of food and knelt down. I undoubtedly would have to place the food outside the fence as this orange tabby tuxedo most assuredly was unfamiliar with the entrances and exits to the patio.
I was wrong.
Showing a familiarity that both pleased and intrigued me, the cat zoomed by me and rushed to an opening in the fence, squeezed through effortlessly, then came to me with such haste and verbal engagement that I felt I must be looking at a long lost love.
It rubbed against me, speaking the whole time, and it stood right beside me as I placed the dish in front of it.
Him, I mean, for at that moment the chap rubbed against me again before turning around long enough for me to see he was indeed a male.
He dove into the meal as soon as I set the container on the ground. I remained beside him as I sipped a beer and watched him.
Famished. Purely, unequivocally famished.
Half the kibble disappeared within a few minutes, his only pauses rested between chewing and catching his breath.
And when he finished?
He wanted more attention, more conversation.
A bit of matted fur, a bit of drainage from the eye, and neither frightened me. I certainly could wash my hands before I touched The Kids. They would be safe. At that moment, however, this cat needed love, needed to feel what it had felt before prior to its new life at the lake.
His familiarity with the patio leads me to believe he has visited here before, visited often enough to know precisely the ins and outs in unadulterated detail.
For when he exited through the fence and meandered about, I walked to the opposite end of the concrete floor by the other passage.
He followed, suddenly full of verve again, suddenly desperate for more conversation.
In his pursuit of me, he rushed along the fence, turned at the concrete pillar, then dashed through the entrance at my feet as though he’d done it a hundred times before.
This chap is no stranger to my home.
And I run headlong back to the question at hand: What makes cruelty?
Is it that he was abandoned, this poor soul in search of a bite to eat and a touch of human companionship? Or is that he was lost by those who obviously taught him not to fear us but instead to cherish and trust us?
Were it the former—that he was abandoned—he would be yet another statistic here at White Rock Lake, another of the local cats who started life with adoration for and from people. I have rescued three such felines in recent years from this very place, three felines who had at least some experience with our kind (some better than others).
Were it the latter—that he was lost—his statistical change would be minimal at best. And what of those who lost him? Are they looking for him? Do they even care? I’ve seen no indication of a search for this feline. And I do take notice of all such searches in this area as I have my hand on the pulse of the local population (feline, canine, wildlife, human and otherwise). If anyone is searching for this beloved soul, it’s not apparent.
