Unbeknownst to me, a cat had been breaking into my house for some time. Slipping through the cat door, he’d been eating my cat’s food while I was at work. An aging tuxedoed tom, he was obviously homeless and starving, covered with infected sores and bald patches.
I really didn’t want a second cat, especially this one, but winter was coming on and I could tell, this old fella had seen some rough times and probably wouldn’t make it through a bad cold spell. He was nearly feral, so I had to trap him to get him to the vet where I had him neutered and cared for.
The doctor said his fur loss was probably permanent. Once he was on the mend, I brought him home and kept him in a backroom supplied with regular food, water, and medicine. After three weeks, I opened all the doors to let him go if he wanted to. He scrambled out like something crazed and disappeared.
After being gone three days, he sauntered into the kitchen to see what was for dinner. Bandit, as I came to call him, had found his forever home. His fur grew in and his figure filled out and when he finally cranked up his purr, you’d have thought a lawnmower was revving up.
My Bandit turned out to be one of the very best cats I’ve ever had the privilege to know, and I have always been grateful that he made his final criminal enterprise by breaking into my home and heart.
