Having had experience working with homeless animals for years, I decided I was ready for a new challenge: trying my hand at rehabilitating a feral cat. I had seen them from time to time come into the shelter where I volunteered, and I began to wonder just what lay beneath their wild, fierce exteriors. Enter Mikey, a very large unneutered black and white tabby with the attitude of the Tasmanian Devil of Looney Tunes fame (and yes, he even looks like the kid from the Life Cereal commercial). He was neutered shortly after arriving at the shelter, but not long thereafter was slated to be destroyed as his personality was not conducive to adoption. I certainly could not deny his unadoptability, but thought he was an excellent candidate for fostering and rehabilitation. I figured coming home with me couldn't be much worse than the alternative, so two weeks after arriving at the shelter, Mikey came home with me. Thus began our incredible journey together.

Mikey was given his own room when he arrived at our home (he was FIV+ and I didn't want to risk the health of my other cats). I really had no idea what I had gotten myself into or what to expect, but I had a vague plan of getting him tame enough at least to be handled by my veterinarian within six or eight months, at which time I would have him thoroughly examined and treated for whatever else may need fixing. Well, you know what they say about the best-laid plans.

After being at my house for about three weeks, Mikey developed an infection in his right front paw. I noticed it when one evening I went to spend some time with him and saw that the paw had puffed out to twice its normal size. Panicked, I called Dr. Tim Feltz at his home and explained the nature of the emergency. Dr. Feltz calmly assured me that it was not life-threatening and that it could wait until the morning for proper treatment. I thanked him profusely and apologized for infringing on his personal time, and next morning brought Mikey to my veterinarian, Dr. Roy Ball, for treatment.

At this point Mikey was not exactly into making new friends and influencing people, and I had the scratches on my forearms and ankles to prove it (getting him into the crate to take him to the vet wasn't exactly a picnic, either; his infection actually burst on the drive over to the hospital). Dr. Ball sized up Mikey who, to my amazement, actually allowed Dr. Ball to handle him. Mikey was left there for appropriate treatment, and I was told when I picked him up that the abscess had been quite deep, leading me to wonder how after being in my home for three weeks Mikey could have sustained such an infection. There weren't any dangerous objects in the room he was staying in on which he could hurt himself. A month later he began losing hair in clumps from his face. My initial thought was that he had ringworm. Fearing for the safety of my other pets, I quickly returned Mikey to Dr. Ball. After examining a skin scraping, Dr. Ball determined that it was not ringworm. At this point I began to wonder if Mikey hadn't been healthier before he came into my home. As I thought about it, though, I realized all the changes he had been put through in a matter of weeks. He had gone from living an admittedly harsh but manageable life out in the wild to being caught in a trap, placed in a cold, hollow-sounding cage, subjected on a constant basis to strange sights, smells and sounds, and then suddenly ripped from that environment and thrown into yet another one with its own set of foreign sights, smells and sounds. Most human beings subjected to those conditions would require long-term therapy. Mikey dealt with it the only way he knew how: by remaining highly stressed and on guard for his life at all times. As a result, a small infection that probably would have been handled by his body's own (albeit compromised) immune system became a raging abscess, and hair that normally would have remained on his face began falling out in masses. He was trying desperately to adapt to this terrifying new environment, but his endurance was being tested sorely.

I decided that for his very well-being and possibly survival I needed to make a concerted effort to communicate to him that I was not going to harm him. I worked on developing mutual understanding, trust, and respect. It was a challenging and slow process to overcome in a few months the fear that had developed in as many years, but I was equally determined to succeed. I petted him when I gave him food, then at other times. I tried playing with different toys to see which if any struck a chord with him. I put him on my lap and rocked him (with his claws all the while dug into my thighs). Sometimes I just sat down next to him and talked to him. Eventually I saw small signs of trust ' he wouldn't swipe at me when I moved away from him, or spit at me when I approached him. During this time I also began to realize something else: that I had come to deeply respect and love him, and that I could never adopt him to another family or place him in a barn home setting. He would be my "permanent foster".

Things seemed to be moving along, and I had even now fully integrated him into my household with my other pets by giving him free run of the house, when almost a year to the day he first arrived at the shelter, I noticed he seemed to be walking strangely. It was the week before Christmas, but I decided I had best return him to my veterinarian for an examination. At first it was difficult to detect in the examining room, but over the next few days the limp became more pronounced, at which time bloodwork and x-rays were taken. Everything was unremarkable except his faltering ability to walk. It was at that point that Dr. Ball suggested a consult with a neurologist at Angell Memorial. It was also the first time the possibility of a tumor was suggested. Suddenly I was faced with considering that Mikey may have cancer. I had never had to deal with cancer before in my life, and I had no idea what to expect. I did know that I was absolutely committed to doing whatever I could to help him, however, so my decision was easy to make. And at 8:00 a.m. that Christmas Eve, Mikey, my husband and I found ourselves in the waiting room of Angell Memorial Hospital in Jamaica Plain, MA.

Examination revealed significantly reduced rear leg strength, so we decided to admit him for an MRI which it was hoped would reveal the exact location of the tumor it was suspected was the cause of his impairment. Later that afternoon I received the call that confirmed presence of a large mass on the lumbar region of his spine. Emergency surgery was performed to remove and biopsy the mass and on Christmas Day, we brought Mikey home. He was shaved in so many areas he looked like a patchwork quilt (we called him FrankenKitty). After two weeks of recuperation time, he began the remainder of his treatment: two weeks of radiation followed by a year of chemotherapy. At the time cancer was confirmed I was given "the talk" by a student oncologist that his remission time would be about 6 months. She didn't know Mikey very well. He may have been FIV+ and a victim of cancer, but a feral is a survivor if nothing else. He had endured life in the wild, life in a strange new enviroment, and then the rigors of bloodwork, surgery, x-rays, ultrasounds, bladder taps, toxic drugs and more trips to the vet than I care to remember, and I am proud to say that this past Christmas we celebrated five years of his being cancer free.

He still has bloodwork done on a quarterly basis, and protests in keeping with his proud feral heritage (as my veterinarian can attest), but he has also become a new cat. He plays with toys, demands his food when I'm running late, purrs, and is no longer afraid to let his guard down and show that he knows he is loved. As I write this he is curled up with me on the couch, his head resting on my ankle, lost in his own dreams.

I feel very humbled and honored to have been so fortunate as to have him in my life, and look forward to learning more from this amazing creature through the days, months and years to come.

Love may not be able to move mountains, but it can tame the most determined feral.

By Donna Raymond