Enraptured with squirrels she cant have.

This is Pig, otherwise known as Psycho Kitty.

I have mentioned her before.  She lives in the backyard, a half-feral thing, terrified of everyone but me and my neighbor.

She used to live across the street where her mother, whom I called Boo, birthed her in the neighbor’s garage and hid her before she could socialize to humans.   Therefore, humans are not to be trusted.  Except that tall lady who talks baby talk to her.*

One day my across-the-street neighbor’s nephew knocked on my door and presented the vet’s letter stating it was shot time again.  He said, “We don’t want her anymore, she hangs out in your yard.  Congratulations, you have a cat!”

What could I say?  I had a cat.

The people don’t live there anymore, and Boo is long vanished, having gone crazy after the ice storm and run off.   A brief reappearance before Christmas didn’t last.   Her daughter’s name was Miss Piggy.  I didn’t like it and shortened it to Pig.

She certainly eats like one.  Throws food everywhere.  I have to fish bits out of her water dish all the time.

Fairly neat this time. The wood brick is there to keep her from nosing her dish under the siding.

She won’t come in the house; that’s a big no way, buddy.  When the threat of tornadoes looms, I have to go out and drag her in.  She sits under my funky antique recliner and wails:  “MOOWWWRR…MOWWWRRRR…”  Her nickname is Bawlbaby, as in “It’s time to go feed the bawlbaby.”  Everyone in my chat room knows her by this moniker.

Another one of her tricks is to sit outside the kitchen window and cry until I come outside.  Then she rolls around looking cute, as if to say, “Pet me!”  When I do, I lose parts of my arm.

Stupid cat.

"What?"

She doesn’t even know how to play.  Dangle something in front of her, and she looks at it and then at you as if to say, “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”  I recently discovered, however, that the laser pointer on my keychain is a source of endless fascination.

Since she’s so impaired, it seems as though she came to me because I’m the only one who will look after her.  If I moved, I don’t know what I would do with her.  You’ve already heard about her trip to the vet.  Imagine trying to keep her inside!

I could leave her…I’m sure a real estate agent would love it.  “Oh yeah, that?  It comes with the house.  No?”

I have to admit, for all the complaining I do about her, I worry when I’m out of town.  Is she scared?  Is she too hot?  Did Neighbor-Who-Feeds-Her remember to put an ice cube in her water dish?

Pets…can’t live with them, can’t not love them.

*That would be me.