I opened the back door one day and in walked a large tabby like he belonged there. He had no collar but was very tame and well-behaved and looked healthy. His front paws were declawed, he had been neutered, and he had the initials JM tattooed in an ear.
We combed the neighborhood, putting notices on poles and in all the vet offices. Nobody claimed him, so we figured they moved and either left him behind or he ran away from his new home.
Our vet said he was middle-aged and was indeed very healthy. By the time we decided his "parents" weren't coming to get him, we were attached to him. We had started calling him "Homestead" because that was basically what he did. The name stuck.
He refused to use a litter box and always did his business outside, and he never got on the kitchen counters or dining table, reasons why I had never wanted a cat.
The only thing was he and our Cocker Spaniel, Levi, did not get along - that is until one day they apparently didn't hear me come home and I caught them curled up together in the middle of my bed. I yelled "you fakers" and they both about jumped out of their skins. They didn't fight at all after that.
We had Homestead a little over eight years and it broke our hearts when he passed away, but it was Levi who mourned him the most. We ended up taking him to the local shelter to let him pick out a kitten of his own.
ALBANY, GA
