Black Cats

Just after we were married, we purchased our first house.  As we got to know our neighbors and the surrounding area, we discovered that a woman behind us kept wild cats that continued to have babies.  I couldn't stand watching that poor mama scrounge for food, so I began to put food out for her.  Eventually I befriended her enough to take her to the vet and have her spayed.

She lived in our garage (Don cut a hole in a vent so she could go in and out), and we fed her and loved her.  We called her Olga - there's a story there but not today.  She became a part of our family, despite the fact that she lived outside.

One week, we noticed we hadn't seen Olga in awhile.  We never saw her again.  Eventually we found out why.  A man up the street shot her because he thought she was eating his birds.  Yes, he shot her.  With a 22.  In the city.  We didn't find out for several months so we couldn't really do anything about it, but I have always felt bad about Olga.  She was a sweet cat.

Fast forward to this year.  For the past few months, we have had a black cat in our backyard.  He (or she) is well-fed and doesn't need us to leave food out (we wouldn't anyway because of the possums and raccoons that roam around).  But the cat sits under our bushes, waiting for birds to visit the bird feeders.  Needless to say, we do not have as many birds visiting as we used to - I think the message has gotten around.  When I go outside with Babs, the cat comes to see me, meowing all the way.

The cat reminds us of Olga - jet black, slim, friendly.  It brings back fun memories of our first rescued animal.