© HOSTBarb
I put a full bowl of dry food out for her, and she leapt on it like a tiger - she didn't even mind me stroking the bony knobs of her back. When she'd eaten about half the bowl, she made a chirrupping cry, then jumped down and returned immediately with a squirming puff of fluff: Trouble!
It was several months before could lay hands on them again. Trouble grew into a hissing, feisty girl, Mayhem would also stand her ground and hiss, but Paranoia would give a horrified glare and bolt over the fence or under the verandah if I so much as glanced his way. About four months later Mayhem went into heat, and while she was attempting to seduce any available toms by rolling and yowling I was able to scoop her up and stuff her into a cage and it was off to the vet's.
The very next day, with her mum in my laundry recovering from her spay, Trouble allowed me to get closer than ever before, and three months later I was able to snaffle her and she made her trip to lose those inconvenient bits. A week in the laundry accustomed her to being stroked (but not held), though she threatened instant death to Gnawra, who would go down and abuse her at regular intervals, and my two boys, even though they were about the same age and really wanted to play.
She was the last of the ferals to become an indoor kitty - Paranoia had screamed and sneaked his way into the house within a few weeks of my stealing his balls (obviously that meant I'm honour bound to see he lived the rest of his days in comfort), and Mayhem had rehomed herself with a neighbour - but had her flowery cat-bed and some toys on my verandah, and would insist on her daily brushing and loving.
She is now my fur neckpiece, sleeps on me, as close to my face as she can get each night, and demands I stop work and hold her if I sit at the computer. She bosses all the other cats, including her father, though together they weigh about five times as much, and rules my house with the inch of needle-sharp claws in her soft white paws.