To Feed or Not To Feed

This morning as I was packing lunch, I heard it.

Meow!

Certainly my imagination, I thought. But then it become more persistent. Meow! Meow! I'm likely to be hungry! I'm likely to be cold! I'm almost positively adorable! Meow!  I inched toward the back door, peered out the window, and there it was. The stray cat I had seen wandering the neighborhood last night. I instantly went into cat-lover mode, apologized, said I would be right there, and fixed a saucer of milk for this hungry, cold, and certainly adorable white cat. I inched the back door open. The cat instantly ran inside the apartment.

My security alarm went off. It was so early I hadn't disarmed it yet.

I grabbed said cat, because I couldn't have it wandering my kitchen, ran to turn off the alarm, and paused for a moment as the cat settled into my arms. It was very clean, and friendly.  All signs pointed to this cat once having home. No collar though.  I put the cat back on the porch.  It had no idea what to do with the milk I set out for it. I decided to leave it, and tried really hard not to name it (Stravinsky).

I updated Steve, who had been showering during my adventure. He said, "Did you wash your hands?" I washed them.

I grew up around cats. My mom once let me keep an adorable stray that came up our driveway one afternoon. We christened him Pierre, and in our house he became healthy, happy, and a little shit. An adorable, fluffy, sometimes wonderful cat, but a little shit nonetheless. (Sorry, mom.) This memory kept me from instantly adopting Stravinsky. I planned on checking the neighborhood for "lost" posters and putting an ad out on craigslist. I thought of Bridgett, who is currently feeding a half-tailed cat that lives under her front porch.

Stravinsky meowed the rest of the time I was in the kitchen.  Steve saw my heartstrings being tugged and suggested I move to a different room when he left for work. Which I did.

But then I peeked out the window. A tarp covered patio table had become Stravinsky's Place.  The sunrise illuminated his outline.  He was completely white, save a triangle of brown on the head and an absolutely inappropriate puffy tail that channeled Davey Crockett's iconic headgear.   I toyed with changing Stravinsky's name to something less refined. 

And I wanted him less. Which really bothered me. 

I also started thinking about how I was ready to feed and save Stravinsky, a random cat that appeared on my back porch. But if a human had turned up on my back porch looking for food and love, I would have been terrified and called the police.  I don't grant strangers' requests for money because I worry about what I'm actually funding.  Mostly I just feel that in that moment I don't have the training or resources to help rehabilitate this person in need. In that moment I cannot give them back whatever it is they lost to put them in this situation.

I became overwhelmed by all the problems in the world that I cannot fix, and felt like a selfish, unhelpful human being. But then I remembered that when people ask me for money, I offer them any food I have with me.  Only one person has taken me up on it. She seemed genuinely appreciative. I started to feel a little better. It's not much, but it's something.

Stravinsky is still outside, now following my landlady around. We talked briefly about it, with her commenting on how well cared for Stravinsky appears to be. She directed me to a neighborhood website that might help find previous owners or someone looking to adopt him. I hope it works, because Stravinsky still hasn't figured out to do with the saucer of milk.