All of my life I have adopted strays. The first was a jet black gorgeous lady (pregnant, of course). Nightie, I called her (I was 6). The most recent (jet black one) was Mysh (Myshkin). He was wild. I moved into a rented place for a year and they told me there was this cat around. Well he was. And I put food out for him. He came and ate, but always fled if he even caught a glimpse of me. In Dec. he showed up to feed but could hardy walk. Massive abscess on his leg. Long story short, I got a live trap, tapped him, foisted him on the vets with many misgivings (he was WILD!). Got him back (they had only few bandages. But they were also not keen on seeing us again!). He shot into the house and was rarely seen again. Glimpses I got of him. But more and more glimpses. But the rental was a 1 year thing so we had to move.........
Cornered him, tossed a blanket over him, stuffed him into a carrier and off we went - on a 2000 km car drive across the country. Bit me completely through my thumb when I tried to recapture him after letting him out one night in the motel (well shoot - a guy can't live in a carrier!). And right he was to do so. I wasn't real happy myself.
Got where we were going but it was for 9 months. At the end of that time we moved again - to here. By that time he had lost his fear. LOVED Oliver. Tolerated me but would not yet be touched. And then again I had to trap him (the old blanket thing!) and we came here. I swore to him when I let him out that I would never, ever move him again. And I didn't.
He lived 12 years after that. Became happy. LOVED Oliver. And ultimately liked me too. He was a fine, fine prince. And he's buried next to his beloved Oliver in my garden.
Pitch black. With a soul of fire. And gorgeous.
