One of the most unexpected things about coming to Death Valley is finding what could be called “good” cats. Hilary and Luke provide space and food and love to two of them, Florence and Boots, both girls. I have never in the last 35 years encountered a good cat. When I was in high school, my parents had a menagerie that could these days have them committed to a loony bin; 16 cats! It came from feral cats that decided to adopt them, then reproduce shamefully. Once you reach a critical number, spaying and neutering becomes an expense you don’t want, so thankfully we had a wildfire that either consumed the excess or caused them to scatter to new patrons. When it was all over, there were three cats which were made non-reproductive. Mama Cat, Bluey, and Tiger. Only Tiger became my cat. He was interesting in that if I thought of getting in the car and driving off somewhere, he got my thought and made his way to the car. He jumped in, got onto the package shelf back by the rear window, and enjoyed the ride.
Our current cat, Raven, was feral. He still is. At least partially. And he jumps at the chance to pee on you. He even got Karla last week. She says she made him angry, and that’s his payback. Hey, if I got peed on by whomever I make angry, I would never dry out! That cat has some hard learning to do.