genuinely though it is sooo confusing when men try and act masc like ?? you will never be butch so stop trying and just put on the fucking miniskirt and cat ears already
When I was ten, I used to walk from my mother’s to the local shop to get a weekly treat. On the way I’d stop to pet every cat I could, and still do this.
About halfway there was always a cat called George. He was an old chap, and nobody wanted to pet him as he looked a bit neglected. His white fur was always coloured yellow with muck, he dribbled a lot, part of his nose was dried and his eye always looked infected. As a ten year old, to me this cat was just another friendly creature looking for, and watching the way folks walked around him, sometimes even shooing him away made me feel sad.
Because he wasn’t mine and I wasn’t able to sneak a cat brush out, there wasn’t much I could do. So I rolled my sleeve over my hand, sat on the curb and let him sit on my lap. George purred so much he drooled all over me, and he rubbed his head into my balled-up sleeve hand, shoulder and everything. One day I was on the way home from school, having had a terrible day. George was sitting in the grass, watching butterflies.
I sat down to pet him, without thinking to roll my sleeve over my hand. His fur was filthy, matted and he smelt unpleasant. Poor sweetheart. It wasn’t until he sat on my lap that I noticed a patch of blood on his fur. He’d scratched a scab open and I cried. I wanted to help him but we lived in a house where the landlord only allowed one cat at a time, and if he was a pet I couldn’t just take him and try to hold him for the remaining 10 minute walk home. He was really skinny, and in just terrible condition. If I picked him up there was no telling what could happen.
So I did the only thing I knew I could do. Come visit him whenever I could, feed him whatever I had and help him live the last few years with some TLC. I’d give him bits of chicken and sausage I pinched from our fridge, I’d snuggle him and kiss the top of his head (the only clean part of him there was) and slowly after about a year he started to look a little better. He was more cat shaped, his ripped ear tip healed and even though he was still filthy and dribbly, he would come galloping over, meowing for attention.
George was outside every day, in the same spot. It was the peak of summer and the grass had grown a lot but there was a little blob of flattened grass where he had sat or slept. One day that spot was empty. I had assumed for once someone had brought him inside. But he was on the other side of the road, slowly making his way over. He looked tired, and not as if he’d just woke up from a nap. Tired, as if he was ready to just flop. Just one of those days, perhaps. Another year or so passed.
I sat down, offered him a blob of ham from a sandwich. He took it, and jumped into my lap as usual. He sat there purring and dribbling, again, as usual. For a while we watched planes in the summer sky, we saw butterflies and I chatted to him. Eventually, I had to encourage him off so I could go home. I kissed the top of his head, and left him to watch the birds hopping to and fro. That was the last time I saw him. I turned around to look back at the bottom of the road and he’d sat down, paws outstretched.
The following day, he wasn’t there. Not under any cars, not behind a fence. I called his name, and nothing. Unusual. Same thing happened the next day. I stood at his patch waiting, but no George. I don’t know if he passed away or got rescued. I just hope he was happier then, than what he had been. Apart from my own docile cat years later, George was the sweetest, docile little gentleman cat I had ever met. And he had so much love to give, if he wasn’t constantly overlooked because of his appearance.
I was lucky enough to spend approximately 3 years of my life visiting a gentle, sweet creature who hadn’t been given the best start, and just wanted someone’s love. I don’t know if George ever had an owner, or if that was even his real name. ‘George’ was just the name the locals knew him by, and that was what he responded to. So every year on the 1st March, I go to his old spot and just appreciate the time we had. A huge patch of Daisies grow every year in that patch now, and the grass has grown over. It’s been a few years over a decade now since I last saw him, so if he was adopted he’d probably be long gone now anyway.
But the point is that ALL cats deserve love. George was just one of so many who aren’t so lucky and didn’t recieve the love deserved. I hope him and my cat have met over the rainbow bridge and are teaching each other the shenanigans they got up to.
