A year ago last winter, I noticed a broken window in an old travel trailer I have in my back yard that I've been using for a storage bin. I had been caring for a pride of ferral cats for a few months by then, and thus was worried about their getting cut on the chards of broken glass below. As I approached, I heard some shuffling inside, so I peeked in through the broken window and saw a small gray cat despirately running everywhere seeking an exit in utter panic. I tried speaking to her in a gentle reassuring voice but my mere presence was enough to cause her to attempt leaping through closed windows only to bang herself up by her futile efforts. I bent down to pick up the worst of the broken pieces of glass and backed away so she could escape without fear of me. Within minutes she dove out the window, gave me a brief glance, then ran off into the woods. I noticed something strange about her right eye. It was fully formed, did not appear to be infected, but was completely absent of a pupil. It looked more like a clear marble than an eye.
In the weeks and months that followed, I caught more brief glimpses of her. While many of the other ferral cats by then would come up when I brought out food, she would always wait until I returned to the house before approaching. Even then, she did so with extreme caution. Not yet knowing her gender, I named her "Popeye" at the suggestion of my girlfriend (another new member here who goes by "Lyric_88").
One day during the summer I picked up my father from the old folks home and brought him out for a midday barbecue. While we were eating on my patio, Popeye approached us. "Wow! She's finally starting to get a little friendly" I thought, and was shocked that she chose a time when a stranger was around and while there was so much activity with my barbecuing and all. Then I noticed that her right leg was just flopping while she walked on her other 3 legs. It was obviously a completely broken leg that was just retained by the surrounding muscles and skin. Then I noticed what appeared to be a gunshot wound of a small calliber rifle or bb gun. Was she seeking my help???
I tried to approach her, but whenever I got closer, she retreated. The last thing I wanted was for her to flee to the woods where racoon, dogs, and coyotes often roam, so I took my dad home in the hope that lesser activity might make her feel more comfortable with my help. It was of no avail. She would not let me near her.
So I called my vet, Euclid Veterinary Clinic, and was told to "bring her in." I explained that I had no way of catching her without risk of increasing her danger. A live trap would be useless since you cannot control which cat enters it, and I was still very new when it came to gaining the trust of wounded ferral cats. I was hoping for a tranquilizer gun, or some sedative that I could put in some milk for her, but unless I brought her in so they could weigh her, no dice there either. "Catch her and make an appointment" was all I could get out of the vet besides a warning "the other cats will pick on her now that she's wounded." When I ended the call I got one more remark that really galled me. "Well, if you don't care about your animals that's up to you."
What happened next astonished me beyond belief. When I came out with a dishe of food all the cats gathered around but did not eat. Instead, they waited for Popeye to approach the dish and eat her fill. When she finished and started to limp away, then they moved in to fill their bellies.
I had by then fashioned some cat houses using enclosed litter boxes that I lined with blankets. Knowing Popeye's skittishness, I moved one of them to the furthest point of my yard from the house and activity, and put clean sheets over the blankets. It worked! She limped to the house, entered it, and two twin males that I call "the Psycho Brothers" (another story) guarded her morning, noon, and night. They remained outside the house flanking it on each side. Within a few days, she chewed off what was left of her dangling leg. Soon her tendons were dangling, then eventually she chewed off those as well. During this time I changed her sheets daily with fresh clean ones. When the blood spots stopped appearing on them, I knew she was healing well. By this time, she trusted me enough to slowly approach her house with bowls of condensed milk that I watered down half and half. The Psycho Brothers faithfully remaining at her side. One of the other females, Lil-Lady, licked her wounds during her healing time. A surgeon could not have done a better job. Her stump is completely fur covered and looks more like she was born that way instead of an amputation.
In the weeks that followed, Popeye started performing her own physical therapy. She practiced running up fallen trees over and over in repetition. She also practiced climbing vertical trees and climbed up and down a step ladder I had against the back of my house. Her determination was an inspiration. One eyed, and three legged, this cat was not giving up. She was determined to learn to make due with what she had left to work with.
I had one of those cat toys that you put the pieces together and make cubes that they can climb and hide in near my front door. They used it as a gathering place and it was not uncommon to see a half dozen cats dozing in and around it in the summer. One day I looked out and saw Lil-Lady and Popeye lying together in the bottom cube. "How cute" I thought. Then I saw a scrawny stringy thing sticking up between them, then another. Upon closer look, it was kittens. Both Popeye and Lil-Lady were nursing newborn kittens in the bottom cube. Popeye was immediately renamed "Popeyegirl." Lil-Lady had no problem whatsoever with my bringing her bowls of milk and dishes of food, but Popeyegirl still panicked whenever I got near and made a flying 3 legged dash. She soon moved her kitties to a different spot but Lil-Lady remained in the cube. I regret not moving the cubes to a place further from the road because every last kitten from those litters were eventually killed by cars (including my own). I now have ALL cathouses stratigically located where there is minimal risk that way, and park my car far away in a manner preventing people from parking in my yard. I've never lost a kitten since.
I tied a toy to a string that I fashioned to the end of an old fishing pole and would play with the kittens with it. Much to my amazement, Lil-Lady, a mother, got into the act with a vengeance. Other cats would gather around, and some of the adults treated it like a competition. I called the games "birdie." One night while Lil-Lady, Whitie, and Cici were competing to become the "Birdie Champion" of the night, a new player suddenly entered the contest. Popeyegirl. She couldn't capture the birdie between her paws like the others did, but instead used her good paw to press the birdie against her chest to catch it. She eventually treated it like a vengeance, determined to outdo the others. She did back flips, anything, to gain an advantage to capture that birdie first. She still was very cautious of me, so she pretended that I wasn't even there, choosing instead to focus only on the birdie.
Last December I looked out my door and noticed 4 kittens playing that I had never before seen. They were about 4-5 weeks old. I had no idea how they got there, but it soon became apparent that they were Popeyegirl's. She must have had them in the trailer is the only thing I could figure, and concealed their presence from me until that moment. She moved them to one of the houses I had along the side of my home, and raised them to respect me (even though she still was unwilling to approach me herself). Two of them are now my house cats, one remained outdoors, and the fourth one came up missing last April.
A few months ago she had another litter of 4. These kittens she raised to be extremely friendly with me and they were no problem finding homes for when the time came. Then about two months ago, she started coming inside my house when I opened the door to go out to feed the cats. Soon I set out a special dish for her inside. Now she bumps the door when she wants in or out, she rubs against me in affection, she lets me pet her, and she takes frequent naps in my house whenever she wants to get away from the other cats. She now trusts me completely and simply adores me. As I type these words she is sleeping on the carpet under my kitchen table. When she wants out, she'll bang on the door with her stump.
Her stump now is a weapon by the way. The first time I saw her use it was a few months ago when Brownie approached her on her left side. Whatever he did that annoyed her I'll never know, but she brought her stump around like a fist and punched poor Brownie right in the nose with it. The poor fellow retreated and started rubbing his aching face with his paw. I've seen her do it many times since, especially when horny males come around when she's not in the mood. She's one tough cat, and I both love and admire her. Whenever I feel down I think of how much she enjoys her life despite all the hardship that has come her way.