Orange Cats

Sigh.

I'm in the middle of trying to rehabilitate a stray cat in my neighbourhood, a quest that saw me crouched down in my p.j.s at two in the morning, trying to let a cat trust humans again.

I'll try and get a picture of him the next time he comes around. He's this battered old orange cat, his fur hanging in matts off his side, scars across his face, and eyes that really need to see a warm facecloth. Whatever stellar human had him before tied two choking collars on him--collars that probably were fine for a kitten, but were now cutting deep into his throat. We were able to cut them both off, but he wasn't too happy about being held.

We've been feeding him for a little over a month now. He adores Fancy Feast Beef, but looks at us in disgust if we offer him Fancy Feast Chicken. Our routine is that he arrives, we put out a plate, he cleans it up, then sits on our porch for a few hours. Julius sits on the other side of the door, and the two of them take in the night together.

We've tried to let him inside, but he's very nervous about that. When I try to pet him, he flinches at my hand, but seems very surprised when I just scritch his ears. Then he closes his eyes, meows this scratchy, gargling meow, and bats his head against my leg. The plan is to coax him inside, and we've made progress. Awhile ago, if we even came to the door, he ran.

We call him Marmalade, because all orange cats need names like that. Just like they need warm blankets and a roof over their heads, and someone to love them.