My cat got booted out--sort of

Rosso is his name. It used to be Rosella. My late husband, Jack, told me that the cat, who had been sleeping on our porch, was female. That was almost 10 years ago. 5 years ago, a friend declared that the cat was male. “Look how he brushes against your boobs!” he pointed out. “It’s a male!” a vet concurred after I showed her a photo of my cat. The name had to be changed. It went from Rosella to Rosello and finally to Rosso for the sake of shortness.

Rosso is feral, which in his definition of feral, means that he can do whatever he feels like. He comes in twice a day requesting food and love. The love thing is recent but very sweet. He then leaves through his cat door. The problem is Rosso doesn’t come in alone. Ever since flea season started, Rosso has been donating us fleas. Every effort from my part to free him and us from the unwanted entourage has proven to be a failure. No vet can prescribe an oral med, which I could possibly hide in his food, without seeing him first. Rosso refuses to meet vets. He also refuses the anti-flea cream which I tried to put behind his head. He’s so much faster than me. He jumps out of his window and disappears for a while. When he comes back, he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.

Our only choice seems to be to dismantle his cat door and let him spend the night outside. After all, he said he’s feral, right? A simple solution? Not really. Do I want to starve him? Absolutely not. After dismantling his cat door, I put his food outside, only to find out that it attracted ants. I managed to solve that problem by placing his bowls in a dish full of water. However, wild animals—squirrels, opossums and the super cute young neighbors’ cat—enjoy his food and are faster than Rosso.

Meanwhile, Rosso’s evening love visits continue. I sit on the couch with the anti-flea cream ready at hand. He’s smart and he knows what I’m up to. He stretches on a throw rug and enjoys the best of two worlds.