She was left on the doorstep of my wife’s vet, estimated two days old. By rights, she should have been put down then. The world doesn’t need another cat. Instead, my wife took her in, hand fed her, and raised here with our dogs – six golden retrievers. It started out well. She’d play with the dogs, ambushing them and clawing on their legs, while they walked along, wondering what the extra weight was. She’d cuddle in our laps. As she got older, her true colors showed. She was a tuxedo, black with white markings (including a white muStache), and they have personality problems. She was raised without feline companionship, and that presumably warped her even more.
As an adult, Stasch was standoffish with everyone but my wife. Sometimes she’d let me pet her, but it was like she was on a timer – three minutes, and she’d hiss and claw and mock bite and jump down. She hated the dogs, who were bewildered and just wanted to retrieve her. She spent most of her time under things. This went on for seventeen years.
Recently, she stopped using her litter box, or at least, used it only when she felt like it, and took to hiding out in my office. I’d give her a skritch, and she’d hiss, so that was normal. Today she turned up with a mass in her abdomen. Cancer.
We had already decided against heroic measures, so as I write this, she is being put to sleep. She had a good innings, and was well cared for, and was showered with more affection than she returned.