The month of fluff

It was a Friday. My son and I had plans to go to a fish fry (this was the year that I told him the real lesson about Lent is learning how to use other people’s religious beliefs to your benefit). A white cat started hanging around on my front porch. It tried to follow us as we walked to the Catholic church for delicious fish, but we lost it.

When it showed back up that evening, I took photos and posted them to social media asking who was missing a pet. It was clearly a homed animal, comfortable and wanting affection from people.

No one claimed him, but I learned that he was a neighborhood stray. He spent lots of time on the next street over where there was a colony of ferals. He just added me to his network of chumps who gave him food. I didn’t want to adopt him because we had another cat, a tortoise shell with a territorial streak in her.

A couple of weeks went by and I didn’t see the stray. Then, on a cold, rainy night he showed back up. He was clearly sick, had fleas and ear mites, and — after letting him in for a warm, dry place out of the weather — had poop full of worms.

The original plan was to take him to the shelter to get him the care he needed, but some folks on social media stepped forward and offered to help pay the vet bills. They had one string attached. I needed to adopt him.

Donations wound up being more than the bills to get him fixed up and fixed.

I brought him home after he got fixed and planned to keep him inside overnight so he didn’t tear out his stitches. But he bolted and I figured we’d at least given him a fighting chance.

He came back that night and hasn’t left since. In fact, he was kidnapped by two people who thought he was a people-friendly stray, got out of their houses and came back to my place.

Every March, I celebrate the month of Fluff.