Wayfarin' Stranger

A travelling stranger has been spending a few days at our house:

 

This is Starr.

 

 

I know not where this cat came from, nor where it was headed, nor why it hasn't left yet; I don't even know if it's a boy or a girl. 

 

But I do know it has a serious addiction to Whiska's cat treats.

 

Should I come closer? Or should I hide from you?
Nah. I think I'll hide from you.
*Poof* *Turns on heel and darts into the shadows*

A little before I left for the Tournament game, I caught Starr red-handed at stealing the dog's food. It didn't even pay the dog any mind-- just swatted her with a snowy paw and kept munching.

My mom attempted to chase it away with a broom. (It looked like one of those scenes from an old movie where the cook shoos an animal out of the hotel kitchen with a broom. Hilarious-- I wish I'd caught it on camera, hehehe.) But instead of running away, it dashed through the cat door and hid in the garage.

I went out with a cat carrier and a bag of Whiska's tuna-flavored treats and left a trail from the attic steps to the carrier. The old Hansel-and-Gretel trick worked, and I slammed the cage door shut on the scrawny creature. It stayed in that carrier until we left for the game, when we let it loose in the pasture because it would have been pretty inhumane to keep it locked up in the carrier until ten o'clock. Besides, we figured it was one of the neighbors' many barn cats.

Starr didn't run away like I thought it would. It returned and spent the first night on our porch under a toy wheelbarrow.

The next morning, it was lying on its back in the sunshine by the porch door like it belonged there.

It played with the dog like they had been friends for years-- until Starr decided he wanted a piece of the dog's rawhide bone. Then things weren't quite so friendly.

I fed it. It sat on my lap and purred like I was its owner. It claimed a corner of the garage attic and now refuses to come out. When I approach, it backs away-- unless I leave a trail of cat treats again. Then Starr will come close enough for me to stroke it, but if I touch it for more than a moment or move suddenly, it darts back into the boxes and I can't get it out. And I have to start the process all over.

But I'm running out of treats.

It's been here almost a week now. One thing is clear: Starr has no intention of leaving.

So at least until the foot of snow melts so that Starr can actually walk, I now own three cats.