For the first time this century, I will be feeding no recurring feral cats in my backyard. Since "Jackie" showed up one day in 1991, I've had a fairly constant stream of them dropping by to partake of the Friskies Buffet. Some came and disappeared swiftly enough that I never gave them names. Some came regularly enough that I did…and there were a few in the second category who basically lived out there.
As far as I can tell, all but one of the ones who earned names lived way longer than the norm. The one who didn't was one who got hit by a car. At one point, as some of you may remember, I was up to four regulars and Lydia, who died today, was the last of that four.
Just how long feral cats live with and without human assistance is apparently the subject of much heated debate among cat doctors and fanciers. Whatever the answer, I'm pretty sure Lydia beat it. She first turned up out there in 2007. The following year, I trapped her, took her in to be spayed — a tale told here — and released her back into the yard. The veterinarian who operated thought she was at least three then which would have made her sixteen today. Another vet — one who saw her later — guessed she was even older.
You needn't write to tell me she had a great, long life. I know that. What I don't know is if I want to take this moment to close down the Feline Golden Corral I've been running out there for a few decades. It fed not only cats I intended to feed but also a steady array of raccoons, possums and cats I never saw enough of so that I assigned them names.
In the past, any time one of my steady customers died or disappeared, I had at least one other one coming around for grub…so I didn't think about shutting it down. If I'm going to, this would be the time. Lydia's been pretty much alone out there since August of 2018 when her friend Sylvia died.
For about six weeks last year, little Lydia had the occasional companionship of a feline I named Murphy the Mystery Cat since I never found out its gender or where it was dining the 3-5 days a week it didn't dine here. As mysteriously as he or she came, Murphy disappeared around April of last year.
Lydia never seemed to mind being alone. I think in a way she liked not having to compete for the supper dish. What did seem to bother her — and I'm attempting a bit of pussycat mind-reading here so this may not be so — was the deterioration of her physical condition. She couldn't run. She couldn't climb. She developed a bad limp. The less spry she was, the more she seemed afraid of my gardeners…other animals…even sometimes me.
I will miss her. I won't miss the Lydia who was lame and in pain the last few weeks but I'll miss the healthy Lydia. Often, she slept in that little house in the first photo in this article. I can see that house from the window of the bathroom in my bedroom. First thing in the morn when I was in that bathroom, I'd always peek out to see if Lydia was in her house. If I saw her there, it put a top-o'-the-morning smile on my face.
When I didn't see her there, it didn't mean anything bad. It just meant she'd gotten up before me and she could be anywhere on my premises or in the yards of my immediate neighbors on several sides. So it didn't depress me to not see her there. But it might, tomorrow morning.