We got him when he was just a little kitten and for whatever reason could not manage to litter train him, so he became an outside cat.  It appeared to suit him fine.  He had a little spot in a play house with some filthy blankets and plenty of time to kill birds, at which he became adept.  I was six or seven at the time, or maybe younger, and had little say in the matter, but he didn’t lack for companionship when it was warm outside.

On a few cold nights he climbed to the perch below my window and pawed at the screen, meowing.  But I didn’t dare let him in and eventually he gave up the practice.

It was difficult to get him to the vet.  We had a wicker basket that was designated for his use, but he knew it by sight and fled from its presence.  Once, just after she picked him up to put him in that basket, my sister received a deep nasty scratch across her chest.  After that we didn’t bother trying to take him to the vet anymore.

Once my sister said she saw worms crawling out of his neck.  I never saw them.  But he had free reign of the outdoor space behind our house and lived for eleven or twelve years.

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