Many, many moons ago, I got a cat for free from a backyard breeder. The cats were kept in a urine-soaked room together, and there was a ripped-open 25 lb. bag of catfood and a giant dog bowl full of murky water that all the cats ate and drank from. The whole room was layered in newspaper, pee, and poop. There was no catboxes. There were 2 generations and at least a dozen cats in that room. I grabbed the slowest cat and left that house of horrors as fast as I could.
The only thing these cats knew of humans was the boot kicking them back inside the room if they tried to escape. The poor little girl I nabbed was an underfed, grubby, ginger throwback, with none of the qualities of the breed she was supposed to be. As soon as I let her go in my house, she made a beeline for the couch and disappeared beneath it. No worries; I set up a food bowl, and water dish, and a catbox near the couch and settled in to wait.
The first three days, I saw not a whisker of this cat, but I heard her. Oh, boy, did I hear her. She howled constantly for THREE DAYS. At night, a silence would fall, and I would hear crunching and scratching noises. In the morning, I would put out fresh bowls of food and water and scoop the box. As I put down the food, I'd get down on the floor and gently invite the cat to come out and eat, making sporadic eye contact, and blinking gently. Then I would leave her alone again. I also moved the bowls a little farther away each day, so she would have to venture further away from the "safe zone" to get her vittles.
After about a week of this, I was starting to think I'd made a mistake with this cat. The howling had stopped, but it seemed I had a silent dust kitty under the couch. I was just about to give up on ever actually seeing this cat, let alone taming her.
One day, I was in the bathroom taking a dump. Since I was in college and lived alone, I didn't bother closing the door. Right next to the bathroom door was a bookcase made out of cinderblocks and particle board where I kept cleaning supplies and toiletries. I hear a very quiet "Brrr?" and looked up. The cat had threaded her skinny little body through the hole in one of the cinderblocks, protecting her ribs. Remember how I told you that all these cats knew of humans was the boot? That's how I knew. "Hello, kitty," I said, very quietly and gently. I held out my hand, fingers pointing down and relaxed. She bolted.
The next day, we did it again. And again. I began "fishing" for the cat, dragging a cat toy on a string around the edge of the couch, and little orange paws would grab it, like a troll under a bridge. One day, she emerged from her cinderblock far enough to sniff my fingers before running. Another time, she let me scratch her cheek before she ran away. Finally, on one particularly cold night, I woke up to a small, tightly wound, furry ball pressed up against my stomach. After that, she was mine. I named her Camille, because of the way she screamed like she was dying through the first three days of her freedom.
I never had a cat that was more loyal, more loving, or better at hunting than Camille. I used to watch her through a window in my shower as she caught gophers in a vacant lot next door. My second best hunter would come back with a brown ring around her eye from trying to look at the gophers, but that cat never caught one. Only Camille ever caught them. I dragged poor Camille from apartment to apartment, all through my unsettled youth, with revolving dates trying to pet her (she hated them all). She finally got kidney disease and I had to have her put down. I miss her still.
