Feral Cat

by Jane Mary Curran

A feral came into my neighborhood. Likely thrown out of a passing car. He skulked under porches and shrubbery. Watched everything. The vigilance of the homeless, the stray, the throwaway life that somehow survived. He fixed on my cat, stalked him for weeks and finally attacked. He clawed and tore my guy’s shoulder, left the skin in tatters. Emergency surgery to sew him up. The feral injured other cats and even a dog. The remains of birds and small animals littered the yard. I made the decision, borrowed a humane trap, set it, caught a possum, then a raccoon and finally on the third day, I found the feral in the trap. He didn’t make a sound. No hissing or crying. Only that watchful silence. I put the cage in my car, drove to the pound, told them he would make a good barn cat and relinquished him. But I knew. I walked out of the building and vomited on the grass. I lost my breakfast but not my guilt at what I had done. Only for my sweet boy, I thought. That was the only conceivable reason. The feral wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop. I took his life to save a life. So he would not harm other creatures. So he would not do what his survival required. But I knew. I took what I could not give and in doing so I ripped the fabric of the world. I still ask forgiveness from his feral spirit. I still have none for myself.