When we moved to Delaware City we discovered we’d moved into a town with a trap-neuter-release cat colony. Every block had its resident cats.
I was quickly spotted by a slender gray and white as the cat-sucker type, and she followed me up the sidewalk with high-pitched little mews. This accounted for another street alias, Squeaky. Later another passerby identified her as Gladys. We called her Princess, so, Princess Gladys Squeaky.
Princess was usually accompanied by her partner in crime, a jet black fellow with a few white chest hairs who was dubbed Blackie Blackster-Blackula for his snow-white fangs.
We took up giving them a bowl of food on weekends, since they were being pampered a few doors up by the employees of an insurance agency, who let them have the side door stoop and were usually greeted by both creatures every morning on the brick sidewalk or front steps.
After it turned cold we tried to figure out what to do and kept them warm in winter with their custom, heat-lamp-equipped chalet. (A couple old window sashes and some 2 inch foam insulation board.)
He was a little standoffish at first but eventually became very friendly with me, coming up and rubbing and demanding scritches.
After a while, when he’d saunter over, I’d make a point of greeting him with a great fuss. He seemed to like that.
He was a few years old and quite handsome.
He didn’t mind our late hound Doogie, who was mellow and paid no attention to cats, but he’d have no truck with our young hound Wessie.
Blackie hasn’t been around for a couple weeks.
I found out today that Blackie was attacked and killed somehow. Dogs are leashed here and Blackie was plenty street-smart. A fox? There are a few around. Our neighborhood is poorer for his absence.
Blackie did prove he has a sense of humor, dressing up from time to time as Basement Cat — who he certainly was not.
A street cat’s life holds no guarantees, for sure, but I’m terribly sad for all that.