Hunter stared at me through the bars of the cage, which was better than glaring. We had set him on the floor of our living room.
His cage was big. It had a place to sleep in one corner and a litter box in the other. There was also a slot where I could slip food and water in without having to open the door. If he got loose, I’d never get him back inside and somebody—him, me or both of us—would get hurt.
“I’m glad you’ve finally decided to stop hissing at me,” I said.
I kept up a running commentary around him. It seemed to have a calming effect on both of us. Although, the first day, nothing short of a tranquilizer would have calmed him. He hissed and snarled and glared nonstop. If looks could kill, I would have been dead a thousand times over.
Day two had been better. The glares continued, but the hissing finally stopped. Thank goodness. It had really started to get to me. And when he stopped hissing, he started eating. The hunger strike had been a problem. Not because he wasn’t getting the food he needed to recover, but because he wasn’t getting the medication embedded in the food that was essential to his healing. Dr. Reynolds had told me the greatest danger was post-operative infection, and scraping around in a litter box with a newly stitched foot was a recipe for renewed infection.
I gave Hunter the medication the way Dr. Reynolds had shown me. I ground up the pill until it was a fine powder and sprinkled it inside a piece of chicken. Hunter was, as I had always suspected, partial to chicken.
In the junkyard, he’d always been hesitant to take the food I threw him. I knew he was nervous about taking food from people, but I liked to think he wanted to leave it for the kittens or he was too proud to take handouts.
Of course, none of those were issues for King. He would eat anything thrown his way and swat at any cat that got in his way.
It was reassuring to see Hunter’s foot getting better. There was no swelling anymore—or at least none I could see. He was putting weight on it too. In fact, he was doing so well he’d even taken a swipe at me when I got too close.
“I don’t blame you for having an attitude,” I said to him.
I really couldn’t blame him for anything—not the hissing, glaring, distrust or wanting to take a shot at me. He’d woken up in a cage in our apartment and was probably still in pain. I didn’t want him to be angry with me any more than I wanted him to be afraid. Over the past few months, I thought we’d developed an agreement. Not a friendship, but at least an understanding that I wasn’t trying to harm him, and I was a good human. “I’m going to come a little bit closer now.”
I moved toward the cage. His eyes burned with intensity and then faded to a soft glow. He wanted to see what I had. He associated me with food as well as imprisonment. I was sure he smelled the chicken in the container I carried.
“You’re looking good today. How’s the foot feeling?”
He didn’t answer, although he looked like he was giving my question some thought.
I bent down so I was at eye-level with him. He stayed in the center of the cage instead of retreating into the far corner. Maybe he’d finally come to realize I wasn’t going to hurt him, I was going to feed him.
I held a piece of chicken out. His ears perked up and he let out a soft, plaintive cry, as if he was asking if the food was for him.
“Of course it’s yours,” I said. “Do you see any other cats around here?”
Instantly, I felt bad. Of course there were no other cats. Hunter was by himself because I’d taken him away from his family, his colony.
“You’ll be back soon. I bet they really miss you.”
The other cats were probably missing him and wondering where he went. Did they feel abandoned? Were they worried or were they grieving? Had they sent out a cat search party to look for him? And what about the cats who depended on him for food? Were there kittens going to sleep hungry because Hunter hadn’t brought anything for them?
I knew King was “the king” of the colony, but I thought Hunter was the glue that held it together. Without him, things wouldn’t be the same.
Hunter let out another little cry, louder this time, as if he was chiding me for forgetting who the chicken in my hands was for.
“Sorry,” I said. “I got distracted. Thinking.”
I leaned closer to the bars, and Hunter did the same on his side. I carefully extended my hand, putting the piece of meat up to the bars. Hunter put his mouth up against the cage and gently took the chicken from my fingers. I smiled.
Unbelievable. In three days he had gone from wanting to scratch out my eyes to eating from my fingers.
If he’d come this far in three days what would happen if I kept him with me for a week or two? Could he become more than a cat in a cage? Could he…?
I stopped myself. Of course he couldn’t. I knew that. It’s just that the apartment wasn’t as lonely when he was here.
I lay on my belly with my face pressed against the bars. I pulled out another piece of chicken. This one was filled with the medicine. I always made a point of giving him one “good” piece first, before giving him the piece that might taste bad because of the medicine.
He gently took that second piece from my fingers. I felt his teeth brush against my fingertips. A bite— even an accidental one—wouldn’t have been good. It would have been hard to explain to my mother. But at least she’d know it wasn’t a health problem. Hunter was fully inoculated from his shots after the surgery. Besides, Dr. Reynolds had explained a cat bite wasn’t nearly as bad for germs as a human bite, not that any humans had bitten me recently!
I was grateful when Hunter gobbled down the medicated chicken. I tossed another piece through the bars and he grabbed it midair and swallowed it without chewing.
I took the rest of the pieces and slid them through the slot leading to the food dish. I was deliberately overfeeding him so he’d have a little extra weight when he was released, just in case he wasn’t able to hunt as effectively for a while.
“Enjoy your meal, Hunter. It’s your last before you go home.”
He stopped eating and looked up at me. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn he understood.
“You’re going home today. Well, maybe.”
Dr. Reynolds was coming over to do an exam, and if it went well, Hunter would be set free.
“I know this has been hard. But we had to do it. We had no choice.”
I hoped he understood and could forgive me. I’d only been to the colony briefly in the last few days. Simon, Jaime and the guys, with help from Mr. Singh, had been taking care of feeding them.
Wait, what was that sound? It was like a small motor or…Hunter was purring. He was rubbing his face against the bars and purring!
I slowly moved my hand closer. I put it flat against the bars. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he pressed harder, and I felt fur against my hand. This wasn’t an accident. He knew my hand was there. He knew I was petting him. His little engine got louder. I was so happy I thought I might start purring myself!