We have a stray cat that has been wandering around out apartment complex since we moved in. He’s black and white, and must have been a house cat at some point because he’s very domesticated and lets the boys pet him.
One day recently I noticed that he looked thin and lethargic, and I gave him some leftover turkey which he wolfed down. (Incidentally it was the same turkey that prompted a string of bitter Twitter posts including “Can roasting a turkey be any more complicated??? I had no idea this would be a five day ordeal. It’s enough to make a girl hate Thanksgiving” and “I resent that this turkey has taken over my life. I have focused all of my negative energies on it so it’s probably going to taste terrible” and “The Turkey is driving me CRAZY.” Twitter brings out my inner drama apparently.)
I’m not a big pet person. My mother grew up on a farm and to her, all pets had to have a purpose. She told us for years that we would get a dog “when we move to the country” before it finally dawned on my siblings and I that we were never moving to the country. So I tend to look at pets as (a) something else I have to care for and (b) something else I have to spend money on.
But this poor little cat wormed its way into my heart so when the turkey was gone, I bought the smallest, cheapest bag of cat food at Wal-Mart. We feed and pet the kitty every day, and she is often waiting for us when we get home. Then Saturday afternoon, she killed a bird and brought it to us as a sign of gratitute.
And the disgusting gesture somehow made me feel truly appreciated.