In January, back when the world was “normal”, I looked out the kitchen window one morning to see a wee scrap of ginger kitten holding a piece of stale sourdough bread, frantically trying to eat it. Of course my heart melted, I was out in an instant, and introduced the wee thing to the wonders of meat and gravy in a can. Several meals later, an even smaller grey bundle joined it’s sibling under the house, and suddenly I was feeding two feral kittens.
It turned out that all the local Cat rescue organisations were full to the brim, and the SPCA would only accept the kittens if they were tamed, so I kept feeding them. I talked to them, touched them, and got them used to my presence. Eventually they played at the back porch, and peered in the door, so I let them in, and stayed frozen in place while they explored. Meanwhile, they were growing bigger of course.
It turns out the best way to tame feral kittens is to feed them roast chicken, lots of it. Needless to say, we ate a lot of roast chicken last autumn. My family swear they got one meal, then the kittens got the rest, but I’m sure it wasn’t quite that bad.
They were about ready for desexing and rehoming when COVID hit. That’s when they moved in, and made themselves really at home.
So, it turns out that Ozzie likes sleeping on crochet blankets, preferably wool, and has claimed the bay window. Harry prefers chairs and pools of sunshine, though a lap is also good. They still like Roast chicken, though tinned cat food and biscats are now on offer. They are amazing hunters, and believe all mice are to be shared with the family, so we have a special “remove the live mouse from the house” glove next to the door. This is my daughter’s job, while I distract the cat.
Having never had cat siblings before, it has been a pleasure to see them groom each other, fight, play, and sleep snuggled up.
They bought us a lot of joy during lockdown, our little ferals.