Rummy, as a mostly black cat, is not enjoying it so much. I spent some sofa time earlier in the week and he lay next to me. Or at least he started that way. Once the patch he lay on got too hot, he then moved over to the next cool spot and then the next. Until he ran out of sofa, then he skulked off to hide in the hall where it's cool and dark.
Rummy having a snooze
Then Zoe started feeding her in the evenings. Her patience and gentleness has tamed the feral puss to the point where she now welcomes being stroked and comes for affection even without food. Zoe contacted several cat charities to see if they could catch the kittens for spaying and re-homing and to see if they would spay the mama. They've been less than helpful. In any case, it's too late.
Mama is up the duff and I think it's not long before she produces the second litter. This time, we'll be ready for her. Dave has agreed to donate a cat hutch so we can use that to encourage her to queen in there (queening is the proper term for kitty birthing - I had to look it up). The wood where she nests is about to be hauled away, so it's fairly imperative we get her used to somewhere new before she queens.
The little cat and Rummy are generally fine with each other, until she comes into the garden looking for food and then they'll have a set to. It's never very serious, a lot of grandstanding, growling and hissing. Rummy might be a touch over-possessive with me, but he's not a total asshole with it (though Boy won't agree with me. Rummy pees on his dirty clothes if he can). When I think of the hidings he's had at the paws of the Lynx. Humpf. Given how tiny the little feral cat is, if Rummy was in a mind to, he could do her some serious damage. But no. He simply would rather she didn't come into the garden.
Spot the difference? About a couple of kilos, I reckon
This is the little feral cat
It's really good that she comes around. Rummy, despite being a rescue cat, is a fussy bugger when it comes to food. He gets bored and requires regular brand rotations or he won't eat. If I get it wrong, she'll eat it. She's not proud.
Dave thinks I'm a totally soft touch. He's not wrong. There's now a bowl for her at my back door. Yesterday, Rummy caught a field mouse. He and I had a big scrap. The mouse did not help itself at all. Every time I got Rummy to drop it, the stupid thing ran under Rummy to hide! Honestly, at one point I though it's absence from the gene pool would be better for field mice everywhere. I couldn't do it. I couldn't see the poor thing killed. I finally caught it and swatted Rummy for growling at me. I put it in a bucket to recover and then I thought it was too exposed, so I got it some cover. Of course it was really hot, so I put a small dish of water in there. And then it might get hungry...
Dave withheld the lecture, he's got such good self-control. He just asked me if I was going to get a cage for it. I kept looking in on the little mouse and after a couple of hours I set it free. Yes, I think I am a conman's wet dream. Jeez.