My adopted stray cat's baby daddy (a.k.a. Bode)

When I first moved to Central California last April, I only lived her a few days before realizing that my new town was a lot different than the East Coast town I’d moved from. There, most of the cats I saw around the neighborhood belonged to someone and were leisurely strolling about, enjoying the sun, sniffing in the grass, or sharpening their claws on the trees. Here, abandoned and feral cats are on every street and in every alley, scratching out a hardscrabble existence with little or no assistance.

My last city had a no-kill animal shelter. This city has a tiny city shelter connected to a larger county shelter and is expected by city legislators to care for all of the city’s stray and unwanted animals on trifling budget of less than $1,000 per year. And yes, that’s for food, litter, supplies, and medical care. In my old town, the county shelter was no-kill and well supported, and people generally cared about what happened to stray animals. Here, animals are a second thought to most people, whether they are thought of at all. Animals run loose in the streets, puppies and kittens are born without any consideration for their well-being or that of their parents, and the majority of people basically just exist around animals like they would around a television or a computer—animals are things that you get to silence a pesky child and that you get rid of then they’re no longer convenient. The animal control officer told me that sometimes when she picks up a loose dog, the dog’s family, rather than pay the fee to get their animal out of the shelter, will just get another dog.

So that’s how I ended up taking care of a stray mama cat and her five kittens last September. She showed up in my yard looking scraggly and not letting me get very close to her. But the extra toes on her front feet soon had my heart tightly within them. I called her Darcie and still have two of her kittens, and she’s become part of the household, too, although she has taken a serious disliking to all the other cats here, her offspring included.

All, that is, except her baby daddy.

I dubbed him that the first time I saw him and now call him Bode (pronounced “Bodie,” an adaptation of BD, for “baby daddy”). There was no mistaking that he was the father of at least one of the kittens, who looked just like him. He’s a dark and mysterious cat, a deep black tabby with a silver-white undercoat, and the most penetrating gold eyes. He was shadowy at first. I could only catch a glimpse of him from time to time before he’d disappear around a corner or over a fence. One day he sat right on my front walk and stared into my house. Other days he’d be crouched next to my window boxes.

During the winter, he started hanging out in my backyard, announcing his presence with a chortling and musical meow that sent Darcie and the kittens running to him. Oh, he was quite the charmer. I believe he’s the father of all but one of Darcie’s kittens, and he’s the only cat in the neighborhood with whom Darcie will coexist without growling, hissing, or swatting. He’s tangled with one of my cats, Ernesto, but even he will sit at times in the yard with this big male cat and enjoy the sun.

Bode rests in the backyard shade.

In early April, this shadowy male became quite bold, sharing Darcie’s food in the garage and going so far as to slip into my kitchen when my back was turned to sniff out a cat food dish that he saw on the floor. Yet I could never get close to him. Sometimes just the sight of me would send him over the fence. At other times, he would let me get closer but run away quickly if I got anywhere within reach of him. He would look at me intently with those piercing eyes, studying me and sizing me up. I wondered how he could possibly think me a foe after I had cared for his baby mama and his children so well. But that is the nature of feral or near feral cats. Trust of humans is just not something that comes easily, if it comes at all.

About a month and a half ago we had crazy windy days. Doors were flapping open and banging closed, dust was flying, and the garbage that some of my neighbors throw around their yards was rolling down the avenue like tumbleweeds. Somehow the door blew shut behind the baby daddy when he was checking out the food bowls in the garage. He was trapped in there, and I went out into the garage with him. I got close to him, and I could sense his panic. He shied away from my hand with a look so pained that I only reached out to him for a few moments before I felt that it was cruel to continue, and I opened the door to let him leave on his own.

Realistically, I can’t take in another cat, and morally, it would not be right to begin feeding this boy knowing that I won’t be renting here forever. At the very least, I want to trap him, neuter him, and release him back into the territory he knows here so well, even though it pains me to see him living such a hard life. But what I really want is to give him the life that every domestic cat deserves—the life of companionship and quiet days with a soft place to sleep, toys, a cat tree, and a food dish that never stays empty for long.

But I don’t know what he wants. Since the day he was trapped in the garage with me, I’ve started finding him around more often. He’s still so scared and definitely prefers his wild ways to trusting me. But two weeks ago I found him sleeping in Darcie’s cat bed on top of the washing machine with one of his children. Today I found him there again. Ernesto was sitting on the dryer beside him. I walked up, and he barely moved. I reached out my hand. He remained. I spoke softly to him, watching his body language both for my protection and his own. He shrunk back, but only a little bit. I moved a little closer, still reaching toward him. His eyes were locked with mine, yet he seemed to be looking at my hand and at Ernesto, somehow all at once. My hand was right above his head. He didn’t hiss or swat. I stroked his little forehead and down onto his charcoal nose. He didn’t purr, he didn’t growl. He just closed his eyes. Then I stopped petting him and he got up, jumped down off the back of the washer, and went out the door.

But that beautiful, wary, untame cat that I’ve been admiring (and psychoanalyzing) from a distance for so long had trusted me for a moment! I touched that big head, knobby with scars from who knows how many cat fights. I looked in his eyes and tried to communicate love and safety and show him what it is to interact with a human that seeks to do him no harm. My heart aches for him. And I don’t know what will happen after this. My boyfriend will surely tell me that it’s ill-advised to do anything. And part of me knows he’s right. This cat knows the neighborhood—where to sleep, where to eat, how to stay safe. It’s his territory. But another part of me simply cannot turn away from showing kindness to this animal, who’s known so few caring touches in his life and lives one meal to the next in a hostile world. It’s just not right, and the alley life is no life for a cat.

Besides, he’s Darcie’s baby daddy, and as baby daddies go, he really doesn’t fit the stereotype much at all.