Scram

Day 1. Monday.
7:00 a.m. I notice a tabby cat asleep on our deck, in the corner by the bird feeder. If it's still there after work, I will feed him.

6:00 p.m. I go onto the deck. No tabby. I peek over the edge of the deck into the yard and call "Stray kitty where are you?"  Meow, meow.  He is resting on the steps. From above, I see how skinny he is. I retrieve a paper plate full of Moby's kibble and go back out. He is still on the stair, looking tired. He sees me coming toward him and gets up, trying to decide to run or trust me. He decides to trust, and hops up the stairs. He is only using 1 back leg. He eats like he is starving. It was a pathetic sight. Marty frowns. "Why are you feeding him? He will never go away."

Day 2. Tuesday.
I feed Stray Cat again. He is an unneutered male. His head and chest are like a lion; his body is kitten-like. Every time I turn to go back into the house, he is at my ankles, rubbing, limping and crying. Finally I go in, and he sits on the other side of the French door. He and Moby hiss and posture through the glass; one with a limp and the other with a cloudy eye. Hey fellas, do you really think you are threatening? By evening, the posturing has stopped, the hissing is half-hearted. Stray Cat paces at the door, meowing to come in. I pull the curtain. I've already had enough of this. Marty says "You should name him Scram."

Day 3. Wednesday.
Scram still eats like he is starving. Through thunderstorms and pouring rain, he hides under the deck table. Marty says, "The front porch stays dry. Why don't you show him the porch? Poor thing." I don't. The rain stops. Scram gets on the deck box and stretches up on his good leg to peer in the kitchen window and cry while Marty cuts watermelon. "Look!  Look at him!" Marty laughs.  Later I caught Marty peeking through the curtain at the door looking for him on the deck.

Day 4. Thursday.
Scram enjoys a tickle while I spend some time with him on the deck. Marty teases me by telling Moby, "Mommy loves Scram more than you. You're just a scruffy old sack of diabetes." Later I snuggle Moby and whisper to him with kisses, "You'll be Mommy's Number One until eternity forever." Moby is almost 16, gets 2 insulin shots daily and is purrfect in every way. Scram endures another thunderstorm on the deck.

Day 5. Friday.
Scram finally stops gorging when he eats. He is so pathetic, that I make a vet appointment for Tuesday. Marty and I consider adoption although neither of us favors it. He likes his belly rubbed and the fur on his back is silky. I found a tick on his neck. He still cries to come in the house.

Day 6. Saturday.
Yard work! Marty mows while I weed. Scram runs circles around me in the yard. On 3 legs. Adorable. He is a lithe and agile gimp! He is verbal and playful and is not afraid of the mower. It is this behavior that wins me over. He lets me pick him up, although his body stiffens when I do. Marty gives his fat head a tickle. Scram makes a poop in the mulch. Oh no. It looks and smells like bloody death. Great.

Day 7. Sunday.
Scram curls up with me outdoors on the chaise lounge while I drink my coffee and read in the cool morning. He is purring. Later, he sits at the door and begs for entry. I no longer keep the curtain closed. Moby and he now stare at each other through the glass with no emotion and little interest. That evening, Marty looks at Scram's eager face through the door and assures him gently, "Two more days, Buddy."

Day 8. Monday.
We come home from our run. I stay in the basement to hang wet laundry, Marty goes upstairs alone. I hear his conversation in the kitchen: "Hi Moby. Where's your brother? There he is. Hi Scrammers!" He is at the back door. Eternally.

Day 9. Tuesday
I violate nine days of trust and cram a protesting Scram into a carrier I bought for him at Good Will. I haul him and all his expensive accessories - testicles, limp, bloody colon, fleas, ticks - to the vet. I am hoping he returns without accessories. I fear for this loyal, tenacious, lost little creature who held a lengthy vigil on our deck. He has earned a place in our home if he is disease-free and can use a litter box responsibly. He is cautious at the vet, and leans against me as he sits on the exam table. They poke him, stroke him, and tweak his large cheeks. Normally vocal, he was silent during the car ride, exam, and blood draw. I was silent when they told me he is Feline-HIV (FIV) positive.

They explain that FIV is spread only through deep bites, not sneezes, litter or shared food. Moby will probably be safe. The vet herself has an FIV-positive housecat as well as several healthy cats and FIV has not been transmitted. I ask them to go ahead and neuter him, rid him of parasites, diagnose the limp, and please keep him overnight so Marty and I can discuss the situation.

Day 10. Wednesday.
Scram is silent during the ride home. I release him from the carrier on the deck, and he immediately chastises me. Five minutes of yapping while bumping his oversized head on my shins. I open the door but leave the screen between the cats. Sniff sniff hiss hiss. Scram lays down and Moby walks away. Is it over? After Scram is relaxed again, I pick him up and move him gently into the front bathroom where there is a litterbox, food, water and brand new cat bed. I sit with him a while. For hours he does not make a sound, even though I obsessively check on him. Moby sleeps in the bedroom.

That night, we take him to the basement Man Cave. He thrashes his tail, but does not cry or seem interested in exploring. He rubs on our legs and plops next to Marty's armchair. He is afraid of his new feather toy.  Marty reaches down to scratch his bull-like neck and cups Scram's face: "What's up, Noggin'?" Scram is purring, and rolls onto his back. We don't know his story; we don't know his quirks. For now we will trust him and he will trust us. This is the beginning.