Fiercely feral or determinedly domesticated, the cat does the deciding and the humans do the abiding.
~Author Unknown
Our family moved to Sarasota, Florida when I was ten and my sister Nikki was nine. Our new home had a beautiful lake behind the back yard, with woods on both sides. Nikki and I loved feeding the wildlife that visited the lake: Mallard ducks, whistling ducks and the resident Pekin duck, which had been left behind by the previous owner.
One particular morning, Nikki and I noticed a small, brown tiger cat watching us from a distance. As soon as we approached it, the cat darted back into the woods. This went on for about a week. Our mom suggested we put dry cat food on our back patio and see what happened.
That worked. We put out food, went to school, and came home to find the food was gone. We were so happy that our new friend, whom we named Brownie, had decided to join our “Breakfast Club.” Every morning before school, Nikki and I would go out to feed the ducks, and Brownie would always watch from a distance, waiting for breakfast to be left on the patio.
Our mom used our new interest in the feral cat as a teaching tool and made us each write a report on feral cats.
One morning, when I was about to open the back door, Nikki called out, “There’s Brownie!” Sure enough, Brownie was sitting on the patio, and behind the cat, scampering around in the tall grass, were four adorable, black-and-white kittens. Nikki and I could not believe our eyes! Brownie was a mommy.
Six months passed, and the kittens got bigger and stronger. Not one of them looked like its mother. Each kitten had some pattern of black and white in its coloring. One kitten, in particular, stood out from the rest. It was the largest of the kittens, and it had long hair and black lips. Yes, it truly looked like someone had applied black lipstick.
Nikki and I also noticed that this kitten was extremely elusive. While the other kittens allowed us to pet them, this one always waited until we were inside to come over and eat. He never played with the other kittens. It seemed to me that he liked being feral and was not going to be turned into a pampered, domesticated cat.
From the research we did for our mother, we knew we had to humanely trap, spay, neuter and vaccinate each of the cats, including Brownie. Mom introduced us to a local feral-cat rescuer, and soon our volunteer days began. Nikki and I were able to successfully trap and return to our back yard all but the cat with the black lips.
To our family’s amazement, all the cats stayed by our home for many years to come. Each had its own personality, and Nikki and I gave each one its own name. We named the elusive one Duma, meaning “pride” in Polish. Unlike the others, Duma would disappear for weeks and return unexpectedly, with what seemed like a prideful attitude. Nikki and I always worried about Duma when he was gone, all alone in the woods with a major road nearby.
Then came that day we all dreaded. Nikki and I were putting out everyone’s breakfast when we looked up and saw Duma was limping across the back yard. He was dragging one of his front paws. He still would not come close to us, so we quickly put out his food, went inside, and hoped he would come and eat.
As we watched out the window, Duma came closer, and then we saw the extent of his injury. His whole left shoulder area was bloody and not moving at all; his paw was badly mangled. The other cats appeared fearful as he approached them.
Nikki and I started to cry, as we knew in our hearts that he was too feral to allow us to help him. Duma became even more elusive, striking out at any of his cat family that would try and comfort him. Several weeks passed, and one morning we watched Duma walk slowly into the woods after he ate. Nikki and I were sure this would be the last we saw of him. By now, his long hair was matted and dirty. It was just too painful for him to twist around and clean himself as cats do. His paw looked infected, too.
Five years passed with no sign of Duma. Nikki and I were active with our local feral-cat rescue program. Once a month, on a Sunday morning, we would head to a local vets’ office at 6:30. Six veterinarians and twenty other volunteers would donate their time to spay/neuter approximately 100 feral cats that had been trapped throughout the county. All the cats, after passing their post-surgical screening, would be returned to the area where they were trapped.
One particular Sunday, Nikki and I were helping to clean up after a very successful surgical day when one of the vets came out of the recovery room and announced that they had a cat that could not be released back into the community. This cat had to have a front leg removed due to an old injury. Its paw had been worn away up to the ankle joint. The vet went on to say that this cat was very “wild” and would not permit anyone near his cage. The cat would be euthanized if no one felt they could foster him safely.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Could this be Duma? I ran and got Nikki. We made our way to the recovery room and convinced the vet to let us see the cat. He warned us that this cat was extremely aggressive and not to put our hands near the cage. As we got closer, we could see this large, black-and-white, longhaired cat pinned to the back of the cage with fear.
I softly called out “Duma” and the cat raised its head. Nikki and I began to cry as soon as we saw those beautiful black lips. He began to purr, louder than anything I had ever heard. The vet was amazed. We told him the whole story, and even though he was impressed with Duma’s response, he warned us not to get our hopes up. He said this cat has been through some pretty horrible times, and would probably never be able to be domesticated. We called our mom and took Duma home that day.
It has been four years now, and from the minute Duma’s eyes met Nikki’s and mine in that recovery room, he has never been elusive or showed one sign of being aggressive.
Our back patio is now screened in and Duma lies there all day, watching the ducks and his littermates, who are still around. They will lie right next to him with only a screen separating them.
And now, our formerly feral feline seems to be just as happy to lead the life of a domestic housecat. When Duma sees Nikki or me getting ready for bed, he jumps right up on one of our beds and settles in for the night. One thing’s for sure: Duma’s in charge of his own life!
~Tori Cleaves
