Van Gogh - well, what would YOU name a one-eared cat?

Spike brought him to me for a much needed meal - long before he came home to stay....he was always bringing those in need to me for help.  Van was skittish - truly feral - and it was difficult to earn his trust.  For several weeks he came for dinner;  he was so small, so scarred, and so hungry that he'd tolerate almost anything for food, even my touch. Gradually, he lost his terror and accepted my stroking as part of his world.  Winter was coming; it was time he had a home.  When I saw him limping one afternoon I knew it was time. 

I tried to catch him, but even in pain he was incredibly fast. I followed him till he went to the underbrush and I didn't want to hurt him more, so  gave up, for then.  I left extra food out, and watched out the window all afternoon and prayed.

The prayers must have been heard; later that night Spike brought Van home.  He knew me, and let me approach him close enough to touch his head, then to pick him up.  It must have hurt him, but he didn't cry or try to escape, he just let me hold him while his brave  heart raced, poor little thing. 

Into the bathroom we went. I put a carrier in the bathroom for him, filled with soft towels so he could hide and feel safe. I brought him food and water and some milk and showed him the litter pan, then left him to be quiet and rest from his fright (me). He was a good patient, he let me stroke him and he listened and watched me carefully when I talked to him. After the vet saw him, and drained the abscess in his back leg, we had to drain it twice daily. 

VanGogh stayed in the bathroom for about a month, then I moved him to the bedroom, the "quiet room", so he could recover and get used to being an indoor cat and incidentally, accustom himself to being around other cats without worrying he'd be attacked.

Van was offered a home; the answer to my prayer. He was almost healed now, and was such a good patient I knew he'd do well in his new home. He was unhappy at being inside, but was always so docile when I stroked him and drained his wound - it must have hurt him horribly, yet he never cried or tried to bite. He never even tried to use his claws to escape the torture it must have been for him.  He knew I was trying to help him, and he even purred for me when I held him on my lap after a treatment. He was starting to accept his new life-style; all he needed was patience and lots of TLC from his new care-giver and he'd be a wonderful, loving companion. I stroked him for the last time and told him what a lucky kitty he was: a new home with no other cats, someone to love and care for him...his own place. He was safe at last.

Beware

I called to see if Van was happy in his new home; he wasn't there.  Contrary to what I'd believed, the man hadn't the patience or ability to care for a cat that needed such extra attention. He'd shut him in the basement and left him alone all day, scared and bewildered by his new surroundings. Van was terrified and retaliated in the only way he knew how; he turned destructive in his struggle to escape. His new "owner" got rid of him.  He'd been thrown away!  Poor little VanGogh; I'd promised him a safe haven, with someone to love him - a home of his own, and what he got was death. In his condition he'd never have survived  in the wild again. He was still weak, confused. Such a sweet, small, gentle life - all he'd wanted was not to be hurt, and I hadn't even been able to give him that much. He'd trusted me and I betrayed him.

I didn't discover till a week alter he'd not just abandoned Van (thrown him out!) but had found him a new home. He's doing well, but I learned my lesson; I'll investigate before placing another kitty. Even people that seem to be the sort that wouldn't hurt an animal need to be watched