The Visitor



Last night, I was awakened by the most blood curdling sound. It was the low moan of a cat in trouble. It was 5:30 in the morning and pouring rain outside. I went to the sliding glass door and looked out onto my patio to see the stray cat who sometimes visits me when he needs to come in from the cold. His back was up and he was in a showdown with another stray tom cat. I opened my sliding glass door and shooed the stranger away. After he was sure that his nemesis had indeed fled the scene, Tabby (I have no idea if he actually has a name, but as he is a tabby cat, that’s what I call him) came in. He was soaking wet and shivering with cold, or rage, or perhaps a combination of the two. He let me towel him off and then he scarfed down some Meow Mix that I keep for just such an occasion. After his appetite was sated, Tabby joined me on the sofa and we both fell asleep, him, exhausted from battle, me just exhausted. After about an hour, the now dry Tabby, woke me up by mewing at the door and I let him back outside. He never stays long, but it seems that I am his port in a storm (literally and figuratively). I went back to bed and dreamed of sad wet cats. To me one of the most heart wrenching images is the sad wet cat. Nothing awakens my maternal instinct as quickly. In spirit of misery loves company, I thought I’d share some images of what happens when cats get wet. (Cue the Sarah McLachlan song)





When such a sad thing happens to the one animal on the planet that personifies the word dignity, one can only ask…