Each and every one of them deserves a home. Security. An armchair and a lap to sit on.
My street cats don’t have all of that. Every day, however, I bring them cold water under the palm tree on the corner. I give them food. They also dig it out of the bins. Every now and then it happens that people throw away their furniture in addition to leftovers and waste. At those times, many cats are seen royally stretched out on the old armchairs, kittens chasing each other between the mattresses and drawers.
When all of it is taken away by the municipality, they play around the palm tree again, hunt for lizards and insects, the mature cats occupy the corners of the large bins, where they supervise their territory.
During the day, everyone hides from the heat and sun in the narrow passages between the buildings. In the evening they come out again. That’s when I visit them too.
In all these months I am already well acquainted with everyone in the street, with the older feral alphas, who tolerate my closeness, others are almost too affectionate on account of human contact not being foreign to them. The kittens first observe me for several weeks. Then it happens. Not with every kitty, of course. But the most daring ones at some point simply decide that I am worthy of their trust. They get very close to my feet and also hands that distribute small piles of food. All of a sudden, their ears find themselves under my fingers, which can then caress them after what seems like some sort of a broken magic spell.
I want to give them everything they deserve and need. But I can only help them to the best of my ability.
My cats actually give me so much more than I can give them. When I empty the food container and pour the water, they sit with me on the steps of the mosque. Even those feral alphas who otherwise never seek my affection.
That’s why they are all – my kitties.