The volunteer lady calls now and then to check up on us. Last time she called, she said Twitchy was discovered living alone in an abandoned house 5km from the crippled nuclear power plant. I’m not planning to think about that last part too much, but the first part explains a lot. She’s got a tiny notch in one of her ears, but otherwise she’s perfect. I have never seen a feral cat that didn’t at least have scars on its nose. Perhaps she had a private entrance and somewhere safe to hide. So she knows what houses are but not what people are. Most of the time when I walk past her, she looks at me as if to say, “What ARE you? What are you DOING here?” But the look has softened from offended to just perplexed.
I can’t imagine what she ate while she was living like that. We keep giving her both wet and dry food and unlike any cat I’ve ever met, she prefers dry. We thought maybe she’s used to eating raw food so the dry stuff is a treat–she didn’t have to chase it down and kill it and it doesn’t have any skin or bones in it. Also unlike any cat I’ve ever known, she shows no interest in going outside. Perhaps she had enough of that and likes feeling safe, which she is ever so slowly starting to do. Last night, while I was fixing her dinner, she kissed my leg.
As she gets more comfortable here, her name keeps getting longer. Since we realized she is a Goth and Out-Of-Focus, she’s become Twitchy Goof. A friend gave me a hard time for giving her such a silly name, but I explained that there isn’t a word in English, or in any language for that matter, that could possibly do her justice.