Here is a guest post by one of the neighborhood strays, as transcribed by my next door neighbor Lauri
Hi. I had another name before the big storm but to remember it makes me sad so I’m Sylvester now. I have long stripped, grey hair with patches of white on my belly and my feet and a lean, elegant face. I’m a Katrina Kitty. Even though my life isn’t perfect, I’m still better off than a lot of other cats who were separated from their mommies and daddies during the evacuation in 2005.
The evacuation was terrible. I became scared and got lost and all the noisy cars and trucks confused me. I tried and tried to find my people. I wandered around and ate what I could and hid from noisy cars and trucks. For the first time ever I had fleas and mites but I kept looking, knowing mom and dad would still recognize me even with my dirty, thinned-out coat and the weird thing that started growing on my chest. I had a hard time defending myself because I no longer had my front claws.
Finally last July, I got too tired to go on searching. My head spun and I looked like a ghost of my former pampered glory. I became so dazed that when I laid down, I went to the nearest shade available to escape the terrible
And that’s when I became Sylvester. A man found me and brought me food and water, coaxing me out from under the car. I almost didn’t go—I was so tired, but the food smelled good, the water fresh and the man’s kind tone soothed my ears and wounded heart. After I ate my fill, the man set the food across the street from me on a porch and called to me, “Kitty, kitty, kitty.”
After a while I went across and had some more food. A lady came home and the man introduced me to her. After some discussion, they named me Sylvester.
Things are a lot better now. I live under the porch and every day, twice a day I get nice big helpings of soft food which is my favorite. I’ve even filled back out! The man and lady greet me every day and talk nice to me and scratch my ears and pet me. They talk about me a lot. They talk about things like the vet and baths and fleas. All these talks produce frowns and always end with the phrase, “Business is bad. There’s no money.” They sometimes finger the growth on my chest and see me tearing at my coat trying to get at the fleas and more worried talk floats to my ears.
A new man and woman moved in next door to us and they are nice too. They talk gently to me and always spare a moment to give me a pet. And they are the mommy and daddy to the Humid Kitties! And the Humid Kitties suggested one nighte through the screen door that I should tell my story on their website and ask for help so I can get the medical attention I really need. And even some kind person might come forward who wants a “special needs” cat—I don’t like loud noises or bags (especially those terrible plastic ones) and abrupt movements. I really like peace and quiet and I miss having a lap to call my own.
NOTE: If you are interested in helping Sylvester please leave a comment here.
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