Gypsmas

Gypsmas - the holiday celebrating Gypsy

Six years ago today, I was home sick from work, and looked outside to see a fuzzy black cat on my back steps, drinking water from a flowerpot. At first, I thought it was my own black cat Sheba, and panicked, wondering how the hell she got outside. When I opened the door, I realized the kitten was too tiny to be my cat, and the little fluffball bolted. The young cat was feral.

Over the next several days, I left food out for the kitten, and when it would let me, I sat outside while she ate, talking to her, getting a little closer every day, and gaining her trust. One week to the day I first spotted her, she let me pet her, and later that day, I picked her up and brought her in the house. She was so skinny, with her fur matted around her neck, and so so sooooo terrified. It was apparent she'd never had human contact before. For the next several days, she hid in my basement, only coming out when I had food.

But soon, she began to seek me out for affection. She liked scritches. She liked being held. She even liked having her belly rubbed. She turned into a floppy, limp dishrag if I rubbed her belly.

A week before she was scheduled to be spayed, she came down with a wicked respiratory infection, and wound up at the emergency vet with a 106.7 degree fever. My "free" stray kitten ended up costing me about $400 in the first month alone, but that trip to the e-vet planted the first seed in my head that, "Hey, maybe I could work at a place like this!"

Now, six years later, she's my Gypsy. She loves her mama, and will lay in my arms purring and drooling, affectionately licking my hand and making biscuits on my sweaters. She has a two-foot-long green furry toy snake (Snakey) that she loves to carry around the house. All in all, I'd say she's adapted quite well to indoor life.

Good thing nobody told me beforehand how it's next to impossible to tame feral cats.