One of the cats that hangs around my house is this poor scrawny unfortunate critter. Some months back she showed up with an eye that looked like something out of a zombie movie; over time it has faded to… this. She’s deathly afraid of me, so there’d be no grabbing her and hauling her to the vet even if I had the funds to do something. Sadly for her, I suspect that if she fell into The System, they’d probably just put her down. Being both disfigured and feral would probably not put her at the top of the adoption lists. So, I give her food when I can. I’ve tried to keep Scruffy from hogging it all, but he’s figured out that if he hangs out with her, then food will sooner or later be made available. And since he is *not* afraid of me (lil’ bastard tried to bite me tonight), he gets at it fust with the most.
Tonight for the first time I saw a couple of black kittens hanging out with her, so she’s a mommacat.
A few names present themselves as obvious… “Leela,” of course, and “Franky” (you might have to put some thought into that… and, no, it’s nothing to do with “Frankenstein”). However, naming a cat creates, or at least acknowledges, an emotional attachment. And this poor critter… well, realistically she probably ain’t long for the world. I’m surprised she’s done this well, even though in recent months she has lost a whole lot of weight. Due in no small part to loss of hunting abilities, I’d expect.