On Wed, 24 Sep 2003 04:58:08 GMT, John Kimmel
wrote:

I spent this evening waiting for Forty-two to come and get his dinner. I
didn't expect him to show up, which is why I was waiting, I guess.
Yesterday morning at 4 am I awoke to a cat screaming as my neighbor's dog
killed it. I think it was Forty-two since the other strays are all
accounted for.

I became a cat owner for the first time four years ago when a friend's cat
had kittens. I took two, Flinx and Pip. That changed me, I started
noticing other cats in the neighborhood, and then realized to my surprise
that most of them were strays. (Most of them are from a cat colony behind
the crazy old lady's house across the street.)

One of them started coming through my yard pretty regularly, and I decided
I wanted to domesticate him. I didn't think it would be too difficult to
tame him and then find a nice home for him. Then I could start working on
the rest of the strays. I had it all figured out.

So I put out food for him, I started coaxing him by tossing kibbles in
front of him and making a trail of kibble for him to follow closer and
closer to me. Eventually I got him to come close enough to touch him. So
far so good. I started putting his food in a cat carrier, and then one day
I closed the door on him when he went in.

He went ****ing berserk.

He howled, the box was bounced around as he charged the door. He knocked
over the water bowl and the food bowl and then ****ed, his fur became
saturated with the mixture. He bit at the door wire and I think he may
have broken a tooth. I brought him into the house, let him set for a
while, then released him into my office where I had a litter box, food and
water for him. He went into the closet and stayed there.

I made an appointment with the vet to have him neutered, but I had to keep
him for a week. He didn't eat for four days. He had diarrhea (fortunately
he used the litter box), and he stayed in the closet. Finally he started
eating, and the night before I took him to the vet, he pinched off his
first real turd. Outside the litterbox, of course. I brought the turd
along to the vet to check for worms.

At the vet, they needed a name for him, so I said "Forty-two". They
spelled it wrong: "42".

Didn't have really good post-op instructions from the vet. I brought him
home and turned him loose in the office. He staggered around in a very
comical manner and I thought: "Hmm, in his drugged state, he might be more
docile. I may be able to clear some of the mats out of his fur". I put on
my welding gloves. He bit my thumb, right through the glove, really really
hard.

The vet's bill was forty-two dollars. When my thumb became infected, and I
got a fever of 106°F, the doctor's bill was forty-two dollars. The
antibiotic prescription was forty-two dollars. Douglas Adams died the
following week.

Three years later, last Sunday night, I picked up Forty-two and held him on
my lap for a few seconds and he didn't castrate me. He just purred,
squirmed away. Sat right in front of me on the porch. Now I look for him
in his spot on the porch, or in his other favorite spots, or I wait for him
to come walking down the sidewalk for his dinner. His ping pong ball is
underneath a table by the door. His buddy, "Shadow", my second feral cat
project is looking for him too.

I try not to care too much about these stray cats, but you can't help but
start to love them.

http://home.teleport.com/~guynoir/we.../forty-two.JPG
http://home.teleport.com/~guynoir/we...ock/shadow.JPG


John Kimmel


Did you find his remains? if not, he may be hiding somewhere injured.
I hate dogs that kill cats. MLB