I've never considered myself a "cat person," but I can't stand to see one suffer. I don't pick cats - they pick me. WHY some of these feral monsters decide that I'm OK is beyond me, but the trust is my soft spot. When they trust ME, I have to wonder just how smart cats really are.
I have three, who are utterly devoted, but I do not understand it. I actually don't even LIKE cats! However, that they drag themselves to my door and are respectful and appreciative of what I can share, it obliges me to respect them. Our latest hangs out on our front porch and protects us. WHY, I have no idea. In return, I feed him, make sure he has access to fresh water (even when it's freezing out) and a heated cat house on the front porch and the back porch. He does NOT appreciate the Neosporin assaults on his wounds or the expensive Vet visits, but hangs around in spite of such violations of his sovereignty. NONE of this is working to make him go away!
OK, maybe I am enabling them, but I respect a non-indigenous animal who is doing nothing more than trying to survive when it was thrust upon this world without any support system, yet it is polite, respectful and appreciative. My Vet (an amazing young lady) tells me they have a sense for a "softie," in so many words. But she's young and can't possibly know any better yet.
I'm no "softie" and I HATE cats. She may be a wonderful Vet, but doesn't know squat about old men - she's still sorta full of it on that topic.
OK, I better got check on Fred and Shortie. I haven't looked after them in something like fifteen minutes now. Harry, that big pain in the keester, is lying by the wood-stove, so I know he's fine.