Milo and Toby lived across the stucco wall that surrounds my property.  That happens to be a house on the next street, rather than a next-door neighbor, meaning that I really didn’t know the owners.  Toby was a typically dumb and loveable black & white shorthair, whereas Milo was a rather shy black longhair with a magnificent plumed tail.  Having a little more personality, Toby seemed to naturally receive a little more affection than Milo, although I tried to give them both some of my time.  They both tended to spend a fair amount of time in my yard, munching a little of the food left out during the day for my own cats, and at night for the neighborhood opossums.  They both were pleasant cats that always appreciated a little bit of affection and never caused any trouble.

Sometime in late ’96, Toby stopped coming around – a matter of some curiosity and concern – and Milo started to spend a significant amount of time in my yard.  Rather than eating a little bit of the food, he would eat everything put out, and I actually started chasing him away at times; the possums were being deprived of their nightly meal.

In February of ’97, it reached the point of being excessive.  It had been raining on and off for something like four days, and Milo was soaked and bedraggled, spending seemingly all of his time huddled in my yard.  I decided to drive over and tell his owners about my concerns.  I knocked on the door early in the evening, and identified myself as the neighbor across the back wall.  I explained that Milo was spending more and more time at my house, and I was concerned that he may have forgotten where he really lived.

Their response, and I quote: “Who’s Milo?”!

It turned out that the family living there had moved away in September, and had casually mentioned that they couldn’t find one of their cats.  Damned breeding stock, more concerned about their slimy birth control failures than a wonderful cat like Milo.  The gentleman gave me their phone number, and I drove home.  I was absolutely outraged that this poor, gentle housecat had been living outdoors in the cold and rain for four months, and decided I wouldn’t call these vermin.  I called for Milo throughout the evening without success.

The next day it started to rain really hard, and I couldn’t stand the thought of that poor cat huddled somewhere outside, so I drove home from work.  Calling for Milo, he finally appeared on the next-door neighbor’s patio beams.  I dragged over a ladder, propped it against the stucco wall, and called Milo.  Happily he came over, so I climbed up, grabbed him, and carried the soaking cat inside.  And that’s how Milo got his home.

The vet checked him out and all the tests came back OK.  He was estimated to be two years old from the beautiful condition of his teeth, but I knew for a fact that he had to be at least four, as that’s about as long as he had been visiting. With plenty of good food he gained back his weight fairly quickly, and has been a very healthy cat for the years we’ve had him.

Milo is a very gentle creature who unfortunately is the object of abuse from most of the others.  Phunny, especially, has never liked Milo and growls loudly when Milo is nearby.  Others, even gentle and good-natured Calico, chase him, swat at him, or even attack him without provocation.  He’ll rarely fight back, aside from batting at Calico once in a while.  He tends to be a skittish cat, running from loud noises or even if his food is placed in front of him too quickly.  Not extremely demanding of my time, he nonetheless is usually quite grateful for a few minutes of affection, rewarding me with a deep, throaty purr.

One real problem is his claws.  Despite being a good-sized cat, his claws are like little needles, even when trimmed.  He’s not much of a lap cat, but if I’m stretched out on the couch he’ll usually sit on me and pull the proverbial kneading act.  And those claws are utterly brutal on, say, my stomach.  I have to keep a heavy blanket or quilt in order to endure his kneading, and he obviously is happier when he’s directly on me without those intervening layers.  But I can’t take the pain.

He’ll typically sleep on the bed with me, but not as close as some of the others.  He’s happy being at my feet or off to the side of my legs, only sporadically coming over for some head rubs.

In view of his shyness and the hostility shown by others, plus the sad circumstances that led him to my home, it's easy to feel a bit sorry for Milo.  Maybe that’s one reason I like him so much.  He’s just a big, friendly, loveable kitty and I’m delighted to have him in my household.