One Saturday morning in April I was really hungry and tattered. I had a torn ear that was getting raw, and there was a hole in my head where a dingbat had just mauled me. I was quite dizzy, but near enough to a house I somehow remembered, but couldn’t think clearly enough to pinpoint.

I was near collapsing point when a lady in running gear opened the door—this wasn’t someone I knew, and I thought maybe she would shoo me away or throw stones at me like that boy used to…he really didn’t want me around.

I was terrified…memories of being chased by a pit bull came flooding back into my head, and I charged for the rock face next to the house. I gave it another go the next day, but, terrified at the sight of this human carrying a round weapon, I headed for the security of the rock face, re-opening the wound in my head.

However, from the top of that rock face, I noticed that the round object was not a weapon at all but a saucer full of milk—warm, welcome milk that I had never had since my kitten days. Its tantalizing scent wafted up the rocks as the gentle morning breeze blew.

Next to the dish was a square dish with—no, it couldn’t be— meat like what the butcher had thrown to me from the back of his shop the week before. There were veggies too. Should I or shouldn’t I? Hunger took over from fear the next day, and when I saw her take away the food I thought I might as well lay me down and die.

Minutes later she came out again with meat and warm milk, quietly, and in the gentlest tones beckoned me. I inched forward, one paw at a time, my head still smarting from the wound, took a few licks of the oh-so-blissful milk, and then a bit of the meat, and ran for my life, up the hard, familiar rock face.

Next day the door was open, the meat and milk were there, and my head felt better already. The dishes were in the doorway, the door was wide open, the lady nowhere to be seen. Hunger pangs got the better of me, and I inhaled the milk in one mighty slurp. Slowly, carefully, I looked around. No humans, no dingbats trying to snaffle it from me. Good. I sank my teeth into the meat; oh, the juicy, tearable meat, and licked the dish clean, then headed for the hills before she had a chance to return.

Next day, it was there again, but my ear was bleeding once more. As I lapped up the milk I felt a light touch on the fur of my back. It was electrifying. I bolted. But she called to me again…it was irresistible. Slowly, one paw at a time, I came closer. She had some cotton balls in her hand, soft, wet cotton balls, and she tended to my ear. I heard myself purr for the first time in months, and I heard words which will forever remain with me, which I cannot share even in this blog—they came straight out of cat heaven…she told me her name was Jane, and asked if I would stay…