This cat.....this old male rascal....one paw up,ear permanently bent from injury or frostbite....weary looking...but knowing where to show up early and wait for the drapes to be drawn. He counts on me for the food he knows he will get. He's been quite absent lately. Someday I know he will never come back, this free roaming feral cat. I think of the bums my mother said her mother fed at the back door during the depression. Now my grandmother wasn't a warm and fuzzy woman...but she had found it in her heart to have compassion on these homeless men struggling to survive. Today there are shelters and food pantries, but I guess during the depression it was every man for himself. Many left there families looking for work they never found, but rather traveled along railroad tracks camping out and eating what they could beg borrow or steal. When we were kids we used to dress up as hobos
A throw back to these out of work men who wore shabby clothes and carried what they had in a bandana or rag tied around a stick.
Maybe I should have named him Hobo...
down on his luck
and looking for a meal
at my back door this morning.