Leftovers for Neighborhood Cats

Kinky, the Author’s Visitor. Photo courtesy of Lyn Jensen

When I moved into my mother’s house, I immediately discovered it came with a frequent visitor: a neighborhood tomcat who sported motley tuxedo markings, and whose tail was so kinky it resembled a corkscrew. So. I called him Kinky.

Normally I wouldn’t mind a cat hanging out in my yard, but Kinky wasn’t compatible with my cats. He hassled my female, Faith, who hissed and swatted at him frequently. My senior male, Ben, was too old to defend his territory from the interloper. I couldn’t eat lunch in my backyard because I couldn’t keep the visitor’s nose out of my burger long enough to take a bite myself. Morning and night he was digging his big claws into my kitchen screen door, giving me a pitiful “feed me” look. If he had a home anywhere else, he obviously wasn’t spending time there, and he always acted hungry.

I was already fighting multiple challenges with managing my mother’s estate. A pesky cat was one challenge too many. I contacted the county animal shelter but was told they didn’t pick up stray cats. Rescue groups weren’t willing to do the work either. I wasn’t sure how friendly the nuisance was, so I was reluctant to handle him myself. I’d have to shoulder the burden of buying or renting a cat trap, trapping the visitor, and taking him to a shelter or rescue group, where the main focus appeared to be on “trap, neuter, release.” I was concerned someone may have already trapped, neutered and released the interloper back into his territory — my backyard.

One day I was scraping Ben and Faith’s leftover food into the trash when I looked through the sliding glass kitchen door and saw the visitor giving me his pitiful “feed me” look. Not feeding him wasn’t discouraging him, so I started feeding him my cats’ leftovers. There weren’t any leftovers after he ate.

Then came a day when I was working in my backyard. My north-side neighbors’ son peeked over the fence and said, “Our cat’s on your porch!”

So that was where the interloper belonged, even if he did act like my backyard was his home. I learned their cat was afraid of their large noisy dog, which explained why he spent so much time in my yard. I also learned his real name, although I still call him Kinky.

Eating Good in the Neighborhood. Photo courtesy of Lyn Jensen

My senior cat Ben’s now gone, but I often find three neighborhood cats in my backyard, waiting for Faith’s leftovers. Besides Kinky, there’s my south-side neighbor’s Maltese, Falcon (“the Maltese Falcon”) and a timid motley-tuxedo tom whose home remains a mystery. He has a brotherly resemblance to Kinky and a mark like a mustache, so I call him Spike, after Snoopy’s weird mustache-wearing bro in Peanuts. If Faith’s eaten all her food, I give my visitors some dry food or cat treats. I never have to throw away any cat food and the neighborhood cats have a hangout.