I had a kitty named Star.

I had a kitty named Star. I found out from the shelter, he was abused. Star was a year old when I brought him home. He spent 17 years with me before crossing the rainbow bridge.

I didn’t want to adopt another cat out of grief at first. A year and half later, I was ready. My fiancé, Mark, was doing work for a woman who fed neighborhood cats. One feral litter was born behind her shed. One kitten was a little social. The other litter mates had scattered. She named this kitten, Buddy. Buddy would reach out his paw to get Mark’s attention. If Mark leaned toward him, he was gone. Buddy spent the first nine months of his life on this woman’s front porch. It was over one of our coldest winters in New England.

One day Mark called and said “can I bring Buddy home?” Buddy smelled horrible!! His fur was like steel wool, wiry and thin. We kept Buddy in our half bath, having read that cats need their own space. I wanted him to see a vet before I gave him free rein. I wasn’t sure he knew how to use a litter box. He was plain terrified, cowering in the corner.

After not making progress, I changed the litter to look more like dirt (I read somewhere that it might help.) We moved him to bigger space. That worked! A vet visit found an abscessed tooth. He was malnourished. Multiple rounds of antibiotics, neutered, tooth pulled, and regular food, made a big difference. His fur became thick, full and soft. Buddy sleeps with us. Mark taught Buddy to do tricks: roll over, sit up, and play fetch. He will give me a “kiss” (putting his nose to mine.)

Buddy doesn’t have any desire to go outside. He has window shelves. He watches the birdfeeder, we call it CatTV. Buddy has no interest in furniture. He has multiple scratchy posts. Mark is convinced Buddy wouldn’t be alive today if we didn’t bring him home. I can't imagine life without him.