Kerri

Kerri came into our family unexpectedly, without plan or preparation. That happens to us, sometimes.

She was one of the cats my wife used to feed on the street. For a while, that’s where Kerri lived — though it was obvious from the start she was never a “street cat.”

How do I know?

She’s spayed. Most of her teeth are gone — surgically removed, for medical reasons. She’s not young (vets estimate anywhere from five to twelve years; I’d say closer to nine). And out on the street, animals almost never reach that age.

Maybe she was dumped (it happens, especially these days). Maybe her owner died and she was simply thrown outside (sadly, that’s more common than people think). Escaped on her own? Very unlikely. That’s just not her character.

One day, during feeding, she climbed straight into the car. She wedged herself under the seat and hid there, and we only noticed her when we were already back home.

At first, we took her “just for a while”: to treat her, feed her up, and pass her on to someone else.
Guess how many people were eager to adopt an old, sickly cat with problems? Exactly. None.

Kerri is a bundle of contradictions. She’s not mute, but she can’t meow. Her vocal cords are damaged, so what comes out is more like a quack. Yes, really — she quacks like a duck. But she hisses perfectly well and can purr with proper feline conviction.

She’s tiny, skinny, almost disturbingly light. But try giving her a pill! Suddenly she’s a bulldog: those little paws turn into iron clamps, impossible to pry apart or hold down.

Her time with the street crowd left a mark. Now she’s a strict introvert. Any approach from another cat triggers instant aggression: “hit first.” That’s how she survives — though she often ends up on the losing side.

Her fur feels like an old, moth-eaten wool collar that’s been forgotten in a closet for twenty years.

Eating without teeth isn’t easy. She’s picky, and always on alert: carefully watching what food appears in the house, making sure nothing tasty slips past her.

But if you cut yourself and hiss from the pain — other cats scatter, while Kerri runs to you. Quacking, trying to comfort. If you’re clipping the claws of some drama queen screaming as if she’s being tortured alive, Kerri rushes over. Quacks, and seems to say: “let her go, stop the cruelty.”

For all her quirks and oddities, she’s still a cat.
A contact cat, reaching out to people, needing them.
The real thing.