It's Hard Out There for a Gimp

Poor baby! Angus, the feral cat we brought inside way back when, doesn't act like he's in pain, but his right hip is completely messed up inside. We had no idea how bad it was until we got this Xray taken. Who knows what happened to him out there--or when. It's a good thing my dear hubby noticed his slightly lopsided gait and tendency to bunny-hop up the stairs. He'll be getting orthopedic surgery on Thursday, at the vet clinic where said hubby works. We're all pulling for you, Angus! Pretty soon you'll REALLY be able to attack your sister.

Cat Hospice, and Other Developments

About time I filled you in on the pets, indoor and out.



Boo is terminally ill. We don't have a definitive diagnosis. After tons of blood tests, a sonogram, and an experimental treatment with steroids, we have decided to let him just live out his life without further intervention. We're continuing the steroids to help him keep what appetite he has left. The vet thinks it is probably some kind of cancer, but we can't know more without putting him under the knife, and we've decided to go with palliative care instead. This guy used to be a big fat pig, 18-pounder. Now he's barely 11 pounds, skin and bones. He walks around in a fog, takes a long time to decide to jump into the chair or take a bit of food. We're going to miss him, but have decided not to torture him any more with procedures he doesn't understand, procedures that would probably only lead to a dire diagnosis anyway.



Willie is turning into an old man hypochondriac. We just got his teeth cleaned. They are in great shape, no extractions, not bad for a 10-year old! So what if he has gray hair! I think it looks handsome on him. Quit, moping, Silver Fox!



He got a little razor burn from the day of dental(blood pressure cuff on his tail) and he decided to make a mountain out of a molehill, spent a day licking himself sore, unsupervised. So he had to wear his punitive e-collar for a week. Doesn't it look cute on him?

Meanwhile, we are feeding Boo whenever he indicates he might eat, which means the other cats are stealing and getting downright beefy. Angus is wearing the weight well, like a wrestler. But look at Ava! She's a marshmallow!



Our outdoor colony is down to 5 cats again. We are not sure what happened to the favored Pablo. Probably he got driven away by the diehards here. We heard some fighting one night and the next day he was gone. Meanwhile, Juno (and I WISH I had photos of this) moved around the corner and became the doorman at an apartment building. She went from shy to I-love-everybody. She just hung out under the awning and waited for people to come out and give her the love and food she deserves. I have no doubts that she has a new name now and a new indoor home. Go Juno!

Vince, Marcel, Rrose, Elvis, and Elvis are all doing the usual, the morning food choir, the afternoon lolling in the sun, the offerings of dead mice and birds all over our yard.

Guest Blogger Angus Barr on Stockholm Syndrome, Missing Cojones, and a Cat's Right to Be Chosen For

Hi, you may know me, I'm Angus Barr, brother of the famous Vince. I live with Anne and everyone else inside the house, which wasn't always the case for me. I used to be a shy feral cat, a few years ago, sleeping under the hosta in the front yard. But then I got a really bad abscess on my belly, and it slowed me down. Next thing you know, they're taking me away in the car, I'm put into a mysterious sleep, and when I wake up, I've lost my balls, have a plastic drain in my belly, and I live indoors. The crazy thing is, I like it, even after my belly healed. There's nothing like a warm lap. Plus, sometimes I get to surf the web with Anne. She moves the cursor around for me to chase.

As you know, two new homeless cats showed up on the back porch recently. My human benefactors took it upon themselves to cage them for a week, and take them away for a day to a mobile clinic. When they came back they were missing the top of their left ears. Oh, and all their sexual glands.

This one, Juno, developed Stockholm Syndrome somewhere along the way. I hear she was actually purring in her cage. This might have been because she was fixing to have kittens in there. It's sad, the choice Anne made for her, but Anne tells me there were over 20 homeless cats at the mobile clinic, all beautiful, some kittens, and the world does not need more kittens. I happen to agree with that. We have three cats living in this house and sometimes that is too much for me. Not to mention the tribe outside.

So, in the world of feline abortion, Juno does not have the right to choose. Humans choose for her. It's tough being a cat. But she seems cool with it, if a little hormonally confused. Now she won't starve, trying to feed little ones.

She didn't want to come out of her cage. Safe, private, with a maid to come and clean it every day, twice a day food--she wants back in! Sorry, Juno. This hotel room won't last. I hope you cleaned out the minibar.

And this guy, I couldn't believe all the yelling! Enough already! Pablo, they call him, but they should have called him Pavarotti. They were planning to put him outside the evening of his trip to the clinic, but turns out he was already missing one of his balls. The doctor had to look around inside his abdomen for it. So he had a little more recovery time than expected.

My benefactors let them out in the basement because the traps had to go back to Neighborhood Cats. So they had their last day of recovery living like normal indoor cats. They were friendly enough to handle it, probably not quite feral to begin with. I didn't get to hang out with them--can you believe they kept us separate? Something about spreading disease, or whatever, one of those things people care so much about.

But even Juno ventured away from her cage, disguising herself as a guitar pedal. She got to like the basement a little too much, if you ask me. When they moved her out into the yard, she just sat on the back porch meowing. So that's it? You're done with me now? I thought you loved me!

Yeah, we have a pretty good thing happening in here. I get to sleep in a bed, and play with my sister, and cuddle with the dog. There just isn't enough room for everyone.

Young Lions, Younger Lions, and other Rites of Spring

Doesn't Vince make a nice stoop lion? As regal as the dudes in front of the NY Public Library, where I had the good fortune this week to be present to watch my net-friend Ron Currie win this year's Young Lions Fiction Award. I could not have been happier to hear his name called. If you haven't read GOD IS DEAD, check it out, it's one of the most original works I've ever seen, in any year, and captures well the human need for God, which according to some theology, might actually be God. A lot to talk about at your book club. Congrats Ron!

It's been an eventful week. As you know, our feral cat colony has two newcomers. As of today, they have both been captured (yay!) and are in the chilling out phase in our basement. Here they are in their traps. They will live in them for a week: two days before surgery, and two days after surgery.

Here's Pablo. (They do have eyes, they just close them when the flash goes off.) He has proven to be talkative and might be friendly enough to adopt, as soon as his pee stops smelling like tomcat. Anyone interested? He has a very expressive vocal range. My husband has been recording him.

Here's Juno. She is quiet, ravenous, and appears to be pregnant. I doubt she will become adoptable but you never know. Let me know if she appeals to you. She could do well in a quiet home.

And finally, I just need to celebrate: this year I managed to walk through Brooklyn Botanic Garden on the optimal weekend. Last weekend in April, for future reference, that seems to be the one. Lilacs, tulips, magnolia, and of course, cherry blossom. Enjoy!

Brooklyn in Bloom

I walked through the Brooklyn Botanic Garden's cherry esplanade this afternoon. So on the verge! Tight, dark buds everywhere. They should be bright pink and fluffy by next weekend. The tulips are in bloom; the magnolia just finishing up. I love April. I love Claritin, too.

Our yard is blooming too, in more ways than one. Here, Wilbur sniffs the flowers he has worked so hard to keep fertilized through the winter.




Unfortunately, our formerly-stable feral cat colony has a couple newcomers. Here is one we call Pablo. He sleeps with a hatchet because he has to. The others have been trying to drive him off. He isn't smart around cars, and I fear he is not long for this world. He's starting to warm up to us humans, so hopefully we will be able to help his pee become way less smelly, with a trip to the mobile spay/neuter clinic.




Along with Pablo came Juno, who is camera shy. We know she is female, and fear she is with child. She hasn't had any suitors around, so chances are she is either pregnant or already spayed. Hard to tell--she keeps her distance. She does eat like a horse. If I ever get a photo I will post it, but the priority is to take care of her health first.

Meanwhile, the regulars continue to beg, sniff catnip, and entertain. Here, Rrose hangs out in the garage rafters.




Her brother Marcel hangs on top of the garage door. Both siblings survived the winter well and are chubby and happy. (I believe they have another benefactor on the block.)


And Vince gets philosophical near the flat mouse he has contributed to the yard's decor. (I opted not to post the closeup shot.)


While we're looking at cute animals, here is former porch-rat Ava chilling in front of the TV with Wilbur. Do they love John Adams as much as they appear to? Does it inspire them to be patriotic? Does Ava, like me, have a TV crush on Thomas Jefferson?

Littermates

I apologize for not keeping you posted on our outdoor cat situation. We still have five. Four are represented here, demanding breakfast. From the left: Rrose, her brother Marcel, and her children, Elvis Memphis and Elvis Vegas. Their brother, Elvis Hollywood, succumbed to a car. Their cousin (we think?) Junior disappeared. Vince, the patriarch, was too close to the camera to photograph this morning. He breaks into the house on a regular basis.

Rrose is getting tamer, and fatter! We aren't trying to touch her, which helps in the trust department. She has decided she likes us, and will now pose for photos in exchange for food. Isn't she beautiful? Look how she cocks her head!

Never mind that they all piss all over the place and irritate the neighbors. Pawprints all over the cars. Garages that stink. Yes, we MADE these cats exist by feeding them! It's a weird existential question. None of them are adoptable, they never will be, no matter how friendly they get, unless you like cat pee in your house. We are learning this with Angus, Vince's littermate, the one we brought inside. Unfortunately, he's way too cute to banish.

But Rrose, I have a special place for her in my heart. Poor thing was skinny and perpetually pregnant, until we got her spayed and eartipped. She's the most timid. She's also the most susceptible to catnip. I love watching her get fat and courageous.

And the kids? The white Elvii? Their dad, a neighbor cat named Yves, is AWOL. Deadbeat. But Marcel was a good uncle. He taught these nephews to hunt and beg like pros. They all huddle in a pile for warmth in the winter. Which is just around the corner.

How to Stay Adopted, by Guest Blogger Ava Barr

Being in foster care has its challenges. For one, the permanent residents are very possessive with their toys. The canine siblings will whine and growl if you even walk near the tennis ball. And older felines can be grumpy as hell, cornering you under the couch, evicting you from laps and food bowls, strutting around the house like they own the place, even spraying the doors to prove their point: hey you! You're temporary! I'm PERMANENT.

Luckily, I have a mentor here. Angus came in from the scary outdoors too, and he's been giving me pointers on how to make this gig last. The key is, you don't have to be pretty. You just have to be entertaining. Leaping across the room is a good start. Bugs are good targets--nobody owns them. (And if you catch them, you earn not only applause, but a tasty snack too!)

Play your cards right, and you'll earn nicknames, like Tomboy. Or Avis--she tries harder!

And if you strike a certain pose on the bed, and everyone runs into the room with cameras, you'll know you've done the job right.

They won't even stay mad at you for digging a fort in the box spring. You're in. You can crawl under the covers tonight with your foster mom and purr to sleep in her armpit, confident you've gone from temp to perm.

Hey, does this quilt make me look fat?

Here Kitty Kitty

Careful, you may find this shocking. Not for the faint of heart.

They don't like us. They like our food, but not us.

Attrition

Sadly, our little Junior-girl has left us. We haven't found a body, but we haven't seen her since early October. So, we're facing facts. The odds are not with her, poor thing.

Junior came to us as a tiny, barely-weaned kitten in the summer of 2004. We named her Junior, thinking she was a boy. She made it through the winter, and come spring, we trapped her and got her neutered along with the rest of our little colony. We tried from the beginning to tame her, but only got her to allow petting while she was eating. Chances are very slim that she has found a human family, since her level of trust is quite low. There is a possibility she found another wild colony to live with--perhaps one of the two black-and-white colonies in our immediate vicinity--maybe even with her own blood relatives. We have no idea who her parents are, for sure. (Her cross-eyes do indicate that Angus might be her father. Though I've always thought of Angus as a gay cat, you never know.)

Urban feral cats rarely move outside a one-block radius. Experts advise never to try to move them, they will only seek their original home, risking life and limb to get there. It is much more likely that she got trapped somewhere (they can live for three weeks without water or food, I'm told), poisoned (possibly intentionally), hit by a car, or died of an illness.

Natural attrition is the goal of TNR, but it's still sad to see them disappear. Godspeed, little Junior, wherever you are.

An Interview With Fiber Artist Angus Barr

Angus Barr rests in the middle of his latest perfomance/installation, "Diner."

AE: Angus, I've been following your work for the past year or so, and I am especially curious about the titling. What is the significance of "Diner?"

AB: Sure. The title, like all my titles, is a reference to the timeframe of the work. My benefactors left me with the materials for the duration of a trip to the diner for breakfast. So I usually have a small time period in which to execute a work, but this time I had a good two hours.

AE: Many call your major work of last year, "Ten Minutes," a tour de force.

AB: Well, I was in better shape back then. My benefactors left me with three balls of blue acrylic yarn and they went into the basement for ten minutes.

AE: I saw the result. You managed to unroll three balls and wrap them around chairs, up over tables, and into three rooms.

AB: Yes, my experience in dance and the martial arts was instrumental in that work. I've taken a much more cerebral approach with "Diner," however, plus, I'm working with an assistant, which is an adjustment.

AE: How so?

AB: Well, she's a little green. Enthusiastic, but I'm not used to the verbal interplay. But we'll get there. It's a new process, far less impromptu and improvisational, but due to the larger time frame, we were able to put some care into the placement of the material. I consider this one a drawing, where the other works were more performances.

AE: What are some of the other new aspects of "Diner?" It does feel like a departure.

AB: I'm working with rag strips for the first time. So instead of one long, continuous line, it's a collection of shorter ones. Metered lengths, like bars of music. It's much harder to harness the material, and to draw the eye into neighboring rooms.

AE: Do you consider yourself a formalist? Who are your influences?

AB: Well, there is the obvious draw from Andy Goldsworthy, who was a huge influence on me in my earlier days: his respect for found materials and for the investigative experience. But he has a level of patience that I haven't learned yet. Also, Eva Hesse, from a formal point of view, her sence of gravity and materials. And I've learned a lot from Cy Twombly and his sense of drawing and mark making, the mark as "signature," like handwriting. I also consider myself an American artist, hence the use of traditional craft materials. Yarn, used in the making of afghans (which I enjoy), and now the rag strips, which are traditionally used for woven or braided rugs (which are great to curl up on as well). I have a great respect for artists who work in the tradition of American crafts, such as story-quilt maker Faith Ringgold. They display a resourcefulness and a respect for the past that I find moving. But maybe because my memory is shot, for me it's more about the present. Improvisational play, in the moment. I find inspiration in jazz music too, Miles Davis, Coltrane, whoever my benefactors have on the stereo, I suppose.

AE: I noticed you used the rag strips to frame the Adidas in the center of the work. Do you consider this a nod to pop art, and the presence of brand names in the American psyche?

AB: I don't really think about brand names. I'm a cat, remember. Maybe when it comes to kibble, but I don't follow shoes.

AE: Of course. Which leads me to another question: it's no secret that you spent several years as a homeless feral on the mean streets of Brooklyn, and have experience in gang warfare. I know you've put that life behind you, but do you find any residue of it creeping into your work?

AB: It's hard not to draw that conclusion, though honestly I'm not sure. My homies on the street were graffitists, and their main medium was urine. The problem with olifactory art is that it's limited to a four-legged audience. So getting civilized, and having human benefactors, that's necessitated exploring new materials. Plus, after my mysterious surgery two years ago, my pee is not what it used to be.

AE: Well, thank you Angus for taking the time to talk to us.

AB: My pleasure. Say, is there any food in that bowl?

Want to Take This Dreamsicle Home?

Well, we have a new addition to our feral colony, which is exactly what we were trying to avoid. What is it about our backyard? Could it be she was looking to Vince for mob protection? Or, is my husband some kind of modern-day St. Francis of Assisi?

Anyway, here she is, and the good news is she's tame. We've looked for her people at city shelters, and no one has reported a cat missing by her description. And orange females are rare. Want to take her home?

She's about 7 months old, likes to be petted, tolerates the other cats all right, but does not like the dog. We'll take care of the neuter, vaccines, and FLV/FIV testing if you're interested. Any takers? Look at those gorgeous eyes! If you're not convinced yet, here's a back view--look at those tangerine stripes!

The Tiny Lions in Winter

You may have been wondering how our little feral cat colony is doing now that temperatures have finally dropped. The good news is that all six are alive and appear to have no new health problems. We don't see too much of them, since it's too cold to wait on the stoop for food. They come round in small groups when the hunger bug strikes. All but Rrose are receptive to petting. Their fur is cold.

Feral cat specialists have all sorts of advice on helping the furry ones survive the season. Groovy shelters made of styrofoam home insulation, lined with straw, are the best. Of course, frozen water is another problem. There's no low-tech solution to that.

Our guys seem to have formed cliques this winter. Pictured is one clique, Junior and Elvis Memphis, who have been keeping each other warm in the rafters of our garage. Better digs are available, but these guys are too afraid of the bigger cats to learn. They seem to be the battered geek clique. I want to tell them it'll be so much better after high school, I swear!

Vince is a clique of one. He appears to be bunking in the basement of the apartment building next door. I think he gets along with someone human over there, who leaves a window ajar. He begs to come inside by the fire, and I think he might be ready. Anybody want a friendly, but aggressive, drooling cat? (He drools when he's happy. Part of the kneading ritual. Some cats hump, this one drools.)

And the other three, Rrosie, Marcel, and Elvis Vegas, appear to be hiding out somewhere down the block, probably the same spot where Rrose used to go to give birth. Haven't figured out where, but it's likely a doghouse or warmer garage.

Meanwhile, the indoor crew is doing its best to keep the gas bill down, piling on top of us at bedtime in a big, snoring mass. Sweet dreams.

This Is NOT a Cat

My husband happened to catch this critter hanging out on top of our garage. He's absolutely fearless. He menaces the feral cats. One night recently I was walking home and he was coming the other way. At first I thought it was Vince. Then I realized this guy was rounder, with a bushier tail and a pointier nose. And then he walked right past me on the sidewalk as if I didn't exist. I thought, OK, you are a real New York raccoon, you even have the street etiquette down.

I am very glad all our feral kitties have their rabies shots.

Is this really Brooklyn? We've seen squirrels, possum, and raccoon in our yard...what's next? Please don't say skunk.

Where You Been, Memphis?

Elvis lives! I was very happy when he showed up on our back stoop after a 2-week absence. I have no idea where he was. Trapped, possibly, or hiding, nursing some kind of illness.

He seems to have lost his innocence a little, wherever he was.

I'm not trying to gross you out with the photo. This is one of the realities of feral cat life: serious illness, without the opportunity of medical care. Memphis has been struggling with upper respiratory infection since he was a kitten. Judging by his eyes, ears, and nose, which I have only been able to inspect closely with a zoom lens, he still has a pretty bad case. All of these cats have had it, like chicken pox, and the rest have managed to shake it through strong immune systems and decent nutrition. Since he won't let us touch him, antibiotics are not an option. And it is quite possible he is FIV or FeLV positive.

Most TNR specialists argue that trapped ferals should not be tested for FIV/FeLV. If you bring them inside and let them mix with indoor cat populations, it is an absolute necessity, but outdoors, there is no way to control their exposure. Cats with otherwise good health, warm shelter, and decent food can have long lives even with FIV/FeLV. Vet professionals differ in opinion about how easily the viruses are spread. Some believe a cat walking across a place where an infected cat walked is enough. Others say it can only be transmitted through bodily fluids, which in the case of neutered cats, means fighting primarily.

Upper respiratory infections are the main killer of feral kittens, and for our indoor cats, this is covered in the distemper immunizations. But the standard procedure for immunizing ferals is to skip the distemper shot (and FIV/FeLV too), since the sterilization surgery makes the immune system vulnerable. From a public health standpoint, rabies vaccine is necessary and routine. But the others are too risky to undertake.

So, I'm glad he's back, but still sobered. Memphis seems to be a little more skittish, but is otherwise in good spirits, hanging out with his brother, and eating well. Hopefully the others have built up immunity to this infection, and with any luck, Memphis will recover too. A smart feral can dodge cars, mean humans, dogs, and other external threats, but the microscopic threats are wily and just as dangerous.

Our Very Own Backyard Prison Gang

Clockwise from top left: Elvis Vegas(m), Junior(f), and Marcel(m) with their gangland eartips



Our city is chock full of homeless cats, who make more homeless cats. And the offspring are truly wild creatures, who multiply like rabbits. I was shocked to learn a pair of breeding cats, which can have two or more litters per year, can exponentially produce 420,000 offspring over a seven-year period.

When we moved to this neighborhood 3 years ago, I noticed four wild cats--two gray, and two tabbies--hanging out in our unlockable garage. They liked our yard, but didn't like us, and left plenty of stinky pee on the exterior walls to let us know.

One morning we went to get in the car and there was a tabby sleeping in it! He bolted, but we realized he had probably been in the car for at least 24 hours--since my husband had unloaded groceries--and even gone on a beer run with my husband. We figured he was reaching out.

I noticed he was missing half of his left ear, so I called him Vincent. When we started feeding him, word got out. Another cat, Marcel, also had part of his ear missing. I wondered if this was more than a battle scar, and decided to do some research.

I learned that eartipping is the universal signal for a neutered feral cat. It makes sense--the marking is permanent, not harmful, and very visible. You can maybe get close enought to a male to see if he is fixed, but not a female. It's way better then putting her through the trauma of trapping and anesthesia, only to learn that the cat is already sterilized.

We realized quickly that there were three other regulars--the other tabby (Angus), the other gray (Rrose), and a tiny kitten (Junior) who did not have their ears tipped. What's more, Rrosie appeared to be pregnant. So off to a Neighborhood Cats class I went. I learned that the females have it worst, often kept away from food by territorial males, and since all their calories go to feed their young, they basically starve. I also learned that if a cat looks pregnant from ten feet away, she is probably days away from delivery. Sure enough, Rrose disappeared, to some secret spot to have her babies.

Meanwhile, Angus became friendly. Even needy, following the common pattern of lower-echelon ferals when they figure out that people are safer than other cats. He had a big abscess on his abdomen, which ruptured, looked like a lemon-sized hole in his belly. So he came inside, got neutered and tested for feline leukemia, and became our cute little cross-eyed buddy. The abscess healed, and we decided to keep him inside.

And then three adorable round white-and-gray kittens started following their skinny mother Rrose to the backyard food bowl. We named them Elvis, collectively, because it was impossible to tell them apart. They seemed to be surviving winter OK, but I started having nightmares about our backyard overrun with hundreds of cats and decided to get cracking. When the kittens were about 5 months old, we borrowed traps and managed to catch all Elvises, Rrose (now pregnant again), and Junior. We cared for them, in covered traps, in our basement, making sure they were healthy enough for surgery. Everybody went to the ASPCA Cares mobile clinic and came home without parts. (And yes--they do abort the unborn in the process. So this is a choice every feral colony caretaker has to make. I wasn't 100% sure about it at the time, but Rrose is now thriving, so I think I made the right choice, after seeing how skinny motherhood made her.)

We kept them in the traps for a couple days after surgery, then let them go in the yard, like Born Free. The whole process, from trapping to release, took about 10 days.

The unanticipated benefit (other than less smell, less fighting, and less offspring) is that neutered, they are much more friendly with us. Junior likes a good scratch now, and Rrose and her surviving two kittens (one lost to a car) are inching closer to our hands. Everyone likes playing with string and twigs. Maybe they will eventually be adoption candidates. In the meantime, we doing our best to look after their nutrition and safety.

And Vince is still the patriarch and ambassador. He cuddles with us, but also guards the yard. Occasionally he will go all the way around the block when with us when we walk the dog, which amuses neighbors. "Hey...is that your cat?" "No, just a friend, who likes to go on walks with us."

We have seen no new kittens this summer (knock wood). The neighbors probably think we are crazy for feeding them but who can resist when they look in the back window like that? Occasionally we throw catnip parties and Rrose lets her true colors show, rolling in the leaves, ecstatic dancing. She is a true flower child.

Hairy Asses (With Tails)

We don't have kids, and act real weird around our pets instead.



Our dog Wilbur suffers from skin lesions and has been wearing a lampshade on his head for several months. Beyond the obvious health fears, it is quite a fashion statement. At first it was high comedy, but now we are all quite used to it. Imagine, people used to wear Elizabethan collars at one time. Luckily his is clear, so he can see where he is going. He still bangs on doorways and stairs, but he just plows on ahead, especially when food is involved.

This year we said goodbye to Opie, my orange crush of 15 years, sweet kitty. His remains sit on our mantle in an Afghan spice box that was probably used to transport Opium back in the day. It is perfect for him, my little Opiate, who used to sleep next to my head and purr into my ear.

As Opie said goodbye, Angus said hello. He's a feral cat who showed up on our back porch with a huge abscess on his belly. He is all healed now, and has gotten used to his indoor family members, but is still terrified of library books. His brother, Vince, hangs out outside and makes his demands through the window.

Boo Boo is our other indoor cat, a big fat grey boy who looks like a pork chop. He has that circle in his side, where the good meat is. He picked my husband out through the bars at the shelter, back before he became chubby and his stripes fell off.

Outdoors, besides Vince, we have Marcel and his sister Rrose, and Rrosie's children, Elvis Memphis, Elvis Vegas, and Junior. (Elvis Hollywood has unfortunately gone the way many homeless cats go, it is natural selection in action, and cars are horrible predators.) All were neutered at the ASPCA mobile clinic and have the tip of their left ears cut off, like gang tattoos. And like gang members, they keep the riffraff from hanging out in our yard. Marcel and Vince have gotten friendly with people, but the rest haven't learned the pleasure of a good scratch.