All of our cats are quite tame. Well, all but Amy Feral Fowler. There are still vestiges of her beginnings as a feral kitten. She came to us at around six-eight weeks old and spent her first week hissing and spitting at everything in the house. That changed quite quickly but there’s still issues that crop up now and then.
Amy absolutely will not let you approach her when she’s outside. And there’s times when we’re trying to get her in (either we’re going somewhere or the weather is about to turn insane) and the little witch won’t have it. She doesn’t appreciate being held but at the same time cries for attention. So I pick her up and hold her firmly with her head over the biceps on my right arm while I pet her with great vigor. This reduces her to a quivering and purring bundle of black/white fur. Then I flip her on her back which she hates and I bear down on rubbing her upper chest. A couple minutes of this and she’s in such a state of ecstasy that she collapses on my desk. Above is a perfect example.
I have not seen Amy much today. But I am certain at some point in the late afternoon she’ll come to my desk, whining in that very tiny voice and then resisting with all her might when I pick her up. And our game will begin again.