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A Cat Named Elvis
Elvis wasn’t a feral cat. He was likely the unwanted kitten of somebody's pet. Or he was adopted by people who later decided they couldn't keep a cat. Whatever the reason, it became obvious that he had been dumped in our street, coldly, left to become a homeless stray with few survival skills and no support system.
However it happened, Elvis, a snow-white, male cat about three or four months old, was dumped in our neighborhood. One day he was just there. We would see him across the road or down the block usually when we were in a hurry to go somewhere. On the few occasions we tried to gently lure him to us, he'd take off. We weren't sure if he belonged to one of the neighbors or not, so there was no real effort to catch him.
Then one morning about six to eight months after he first appeared in our neighborhood, the white cat showed up on our back deck and wrapped himself, purring, around my husband’s legs.
He immediately called to me to get some cat food. I understood why as soon as I saw the cat close up. Elvis, as my husband named him, was painfully thin. He had fight wounds all over his body and about his eyes. There were poorly healed scars and his fur was thin and rough. Elvis was starving. In his condition, I doubt that he would have lived another week if he hadn't chosen to come to us.
Over the next two months, Elvis came to our home everyday for food and affection. We plied him with premium cat food, tuna, and salmon. Sometimes he would sleep in the flower bed all day and into the night.
He wouldn't come into the house. We had three other cats at the time and he saw them as threats. (Mr. Squeeks and his sister Gatita were our first rescues. Amber was another cat who had been dropped off to fend on her own near where my husband worked. And later, there was Annie, the sweetest-natured cat I have ever known. She also was dumped in the same area as Amber was.)
Elvis gained weight, although he never got anywhere near fat; his wounds healed nicely and his fur became thick and sleek. We decided that the time had come to take him to the vets and have him neutered and immunized. I got the cat carrier out so that it would be handy for transferring him to the vets. Then I waited for an opportunity.
Of course, at this point, Elvis disappeared. He no longer came to our back yard, and though we would catch glimpses of him now and then, he no longer came when we called. Cats are smart. I believe he knew what we intended and decided that there is a time to stay and a time to run.
About six months later, he showed up on the deck to, once again, wrap himself around my husband’s legs.
He was in worse shape than he had been the first time. His coat was very thin and rough, the fur brittle. His eyes were red-rimmed and he seemed sensitive to the sunlight. And there were wounds that were barely healing.
I gave him a can salmon, hoping that these bouts of near total starvation had not weakened him to the point of serious illness. This time, I decided, I would take him to the vet as soon as he showed enough improvement to be able to handle the car ride.
Elvis ate and, in gratitude for the meal, rubbed up against me, purring. Then he found a nice spot in the sun to lie. He was gone in the evening.
He never came back. We had to assume that the damage from the starvation had been too much and he either died from that, or had encountered another animal in the night and had been too weak to defend himself.
Whenever I hear of feral cat colonies, I think of Elvis. Elvis was not born in the wild. He was thrown away by thoughtless owners. These people either had no understanding of the suffering that they caused this cat, or they just didn’t care.
Had Elvis been born into a feral cat colony, he would have been taught by his mother and other members of the colony how to fend for himself. But he was alone.
There are far too many stories like Elvis's in this country….
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