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My name is Hercules, and I am a Cat—a big and beautiful two-year-old Cat.
Someone must have been loved me once, since I purr mightily when my foster mom holds me close, but all I can remember of my life, up until a few months ago, is being homeless and hungry and alone. And cold, so cold, in the winter.

I lost the tip of one ear, probably to frostbite. Or maybe I lost it in a fight. Since I was an intact male then, other tomcats would attack me. I’m a sweet, gentle soul, but still they’d attack me, as tomcats are prone to do.

My neighborhood was a low-income place, but a woman fed me for a year, though she didn’t give me shelter or find me a home. When she moved away, I shared the food another woman was putting out for a homeless girl kitty, but eventually that woman moved away, too. There was an old woman who would talk to me from a distance when she saw me, but she didn’t know I was homeless. She had a big, rambunctious dog named Jack the Ripper in her fenced yard, so I didn’t dare go close.

I caught what mice I could, but by fall 2006 I was thin as a rail. My hair was falling out and I had ear mites and an ear infection and roundworms and fleas and deep gouges in my handsome face. As the weather got colder, I looked for shelter, but couldn’t find much. Up and down the alleys I went, but nothing.

Then one day I noticed that the landlord for the house with the fenced yard had left open the small door in the garage. He’d stored an old truck in there, and it was too big for the little garage and had wedged the door open a crack. When I was totally chilled one autumn night, and the dog was in the house, I jumped over the fence and scooted into the garage. I went in there every night after that.

One night the old woman peeked inside the garage. I don’t know why—just nosy, I guess. She saw me, but I hid under the truck. She checked again the next night, and though I hid again, she brought me food and water and a little bed. Finally I stopped hiding when she came, and she’d pick me up and cuddle me, amazed that I’d gladly postpone eating to be held. She said she was sorry she couldn’t take me into the house, but she had two foster cats—Thelma and Louise—and couldn’t take a chance on my giving them fleas or whatever.

When she was helping show dogs at Petco for Last Hope, she told Bev Orr about me, and Bev said they’d pay for any vet care I needed. I got rid of all my parasites, which was great, but the vet also took away something else that I hadn’t planned on parting with! Oh well, at least the other males in the neighborhood stopped attacking me and the gouges on my face started to heal.

The old woman moved me into her apartment then, where it was nice and warm and there was always food and water and my thin, dry, black-and-white coat gradually became lustrous and silky. Jack the Ripper turned out to be a cool guy, and Thelma was shy, but Louise picked on me at every opportunity, and still does. I’m bigger, and could have made mincemeat of her, but I’m too gentle to hurt even a she-devil like her. The old woman throws water on her and bawls her out every time she goes after me, but that hasn’t slowed her down much.

Like many formerly-starved cats, I overeat. When the old lady noticed that I was turning into a blimp, she’d put the cat food out of my reach, but then I’d nibble on Jack’s food. It gave me severe diarrhea, which kept me from being considered adoptable, but it took the old lady a long time to connect the dog food with my intestinal distress. Now she keeps the dog food out of my reach, and the vet gave me a bag of special cat food, which has solved the problem.

I’ve just started playing with toys. Playing is kitten behavior, which adult homeless cats must outgrow because they have to be in grim survival mode all the time, but now that I’m never hungry I’ve begun to play. Louise doesn’t want me touching their toys, so I play when she’s napping. What a beastie she is!

Though I like being safe and comfortable, I miss my outdoor world terribly. Terribly! I sit at the door and cry. The old woman lets me out only when it’s raining pitchforks or bitter cold, since I turn around right on the stoop and come back in. I did sneak out a couple times when the weather was nice, and it was wonderful being a real cat again, but the old woman came looking for me and put me back into the house.

She wasn’t so worried about my getting hit by a car, since I survived that danger for a couple years, but she couldn’t have me getting ear mites—or worse—so I’m once again inside, crying at the door. She does have cushioned “look outs” at windows on four sides of the apartment, and that helps a little. She’s thought about placing me on a farm, but says farm cats don’t get good care. Besides, I might try to find my way home again and get hit crossing a freeway.

I think I would enjoy the companionship of a nice cat. The old lady thinks I’m a Taurus, since I’m calm and steady and good-natured and affectionate, but very determined when it comes to something high-priority, like going outside.

Though I love being safe and healthy and no longer lonely for human companionship, I miss my outdoor world. I sometimes sit at the door and cry. I did sneak out a few times at night, when my foster mom let Jack out to do some business he considered urgent. Though she was very worried about me, come morning she found me sitting in the doorway of my little garage.
She has cushioned "look outs" at windows on all four sides of the house, but I still wish I could go out. She said maybe I'd be happy as a farm Kat, but then she said there could be a nasty Kat there like Louise, who wouldn't let me into the barn. I might try to come home again and get killed on a freeway, so I guess that's out.

My foster mom finally figured out the other reason I was mewing at the front door. It was because of my friend Morgan, who had sometimes shared the garage with me. Morgan is a feral Kat from the little woods near here. One evening, when it was snowing and I was mewing at the door, my foster mom said, "You wouldn't want to be out there, Herkie Lerkie. It's snowing. Those big white feet of yours would be mighty cold."

The next day she saw paw prints in the snow, leading from the front door to the garage, and she knew why I'd been mewing. So she started leaving food in the garage. Morgan doesn't stay there a lot these days, since Jack went into the garage one morning. Poor Morgan came flying out, raced around the yard, and jumped over the fence.

Well, that's my story to date. I'm sitting on my foster mom's lap as I finish typing this, and she says I really do need to go on a diet after I get settled in my new home because I feel like a sand bag. But she also says I'm a perfect lap Kat-sweet and cuddly. I hope my adoptive home will have a nice, congenial playmate for me, a friendly Capricorn or Virgo Kat. I like to play, but if the playmate is like Louise, I'll run away, I swear!

Well, that’s my story. I’ve traded freedom for safety and comfort, but I guess it could be worse. Though I’ll miss the old lady, I’ll be glad to get an adoptive home and get away from that devil-cat of a Louise.

I have one message for the humans out there, one very important message. If you’re feeding a homeless cat, that’s nice, but it’s not enough. You must help to find it a permanent home. And for heaven’s sake, don’t move away and leave the cat behind to starve or freeze to death. That’s not what caring people do.

Andy is a Last Hope volunteer and has been published. You can visit her site at http://www.twedtbooks.com/