A Gift

All through the winter, I've been feeding the feral cats outside my building - a mother and two small black kittens. They, rightfully too frightened of humans to come close, have often watched me with a seeming mixture of fear and curiosity from a safe distance, shrouded by bushes and shrubs. I have considered this my duty - it is not well to leave cold and hungry beings wanting when it is in your power to help them - but it has involved a measure of sacrifice: long walks to and from WINCO in subzero weather carrying heavy bags of catfood at $7 apiece, the possibility of disciplinary action from an unsympathetic housing administration that probably rightly knows that food attracts pests and that well-fed cats are fertile cats and could result in an even bigger problem. (I'll be working with the Humane Society to see what can be done - humane trapping, spaying/neutering and such.) But how often have I longed to gather them inside when the temperature dipped near to zero degrees! How often have I longed to pet them and to see them purr! How often have I wished that I could secure their future happiness by seeing them placed in loving homes! But humans are unpredictable creatures, and they are right to be cautious.

Last night while doing my laundry in the basement, I noticed that one of the cats - a small creature whose fur is shot through with silver, giving it a perpetually frostbitten look - was hovering anxiously near the food bowl, which was not quite yet empty. It was watching me through the glass doors at a closer distance than it had ever before dared. When I went outside to refresh the water bowl and put more food out, it watched me from a mere few feet away, ready to flee at any moment, but waiting with an almost tender solicitude (okay, maybe I am anthropomorphizing a little).

And then I saw it - the gift. A small dead field mouse lay on the ground in front of the food bowl, its tiny body still perfectly intact. Poor little mouse. But I have to admit my heart just melted.