Once, several years ago, mom had several birdfeeders, ranging from plastic, to wood, to metal, filled with sunflower seeds and thistle seeds.

I would sit on the front porch, surrounded by birdsong.   If I ever looked up from my laptop, blue jays, robins, assorted finches, and cardinals fought each other for position on the feeders.   They’d hide in the apple trees and in the poplars by the side of the house.

Once, I even found a nest of three pale blue eggs hidden in the back satellite dish.  (I’m talking about the big Georgia flower dishes from the ’80s, not the little ones that’s used now.)

Beautiful multi-colored fussy winged angels.
I found them inspirational and calming.   I loved it.

Present day:   Mom feeds stray cats.

Okay, I like cats too.  Sure, they don’t chirp like birds but they can be plenty vocal.  All of them have fairly unique personalities and they can be fairly fascinating to watch.

Let’s see, we have Daisy, a calico who follows Bill to the mailbox each morning.  Blondie is, well, a blonde cat.  She doesn’t say much.  Oscar is more of a bold yellow who has a bum left paw.   Since he doesn’t maneuver very well, he’s more of a fighter.   He’s trolled up in the mornings with a couple of scratches on occasion.   Of course, there’s Indiana Sneezles.   He looks just like Florida Sneezles, but doesn’t have the black nose.

My persona theory is Florida Sneezles was born to get into things he shouldn’t, hence the black nose.  Indiana Sneezles is a bit more responsible than that.

One of our newest strays is Fuzzy.
Fuzzy is just what it sounds like.   She (or he… haven’t been able to determine) is a light gray cat with medium length fur.   It’s kind of hard to describe.  It’s not short like Morris, but it doesn’t look like a scarf either.  She’s not that old.  I guess I’d place her in the teenager category.    Overall, I think she’s a gorgeous cat, even with her matted fur.

It’s obvious Fuzzy lost her forever home.  She’s overly friendly with everyone, even my brother who hates animals.  Fuzzy readily comes to me, without fear, and immediately starts to purr when I scratch her neck.    People, any sort of people apparently, doesn’t scare her.  Every time the door opens, she freezes.   Not because she’s afraid, but she wants to come in…  but she can’t quite make herself to do it.

Fuzzy isn’t bold enough to make her move.

I don’t know what goes through her head.   Is she thinking about her previous family?  Maybe they where cruel and she doesn’t know what would happen inside.   Perhaps she thinks about what she would be abandoning by going in – the other cats, chasing mice, or maybe there’s other families she visits who appreciate her just as much as I do.

For ever the reason, stone still with large eyes, Fuzzy becomes a living statue until the door closes.   As if a spell broke, she becomes herself – just as gentle and kind as before.

In a way, I see some of me in her.   She’s stuck, just as I am.  We don’t know if we should go for it or stay.   Run forward or away.  Is it better or is it worse?

Fuzzy has become my new favorite.   The previous favorite was Fussy, an old calico with white legs and belly.    She would follow people around meowing at the top of her lungs and then run away if approached – hence, fussy.   However, as soon as I turned my back on her, Fussy would start meowing again, as if the inattention was a grave offense.   She was just fun to be around.

But there’s something about Fuzzy that I like more. If it was up to me, I’d take her in.   She’d be brushed… hopefully she likes to be brushed.  I learned a long time ago that cats won’t allow that sort of thing if they don’t like it.    She could have kitty treats and wet food once in a while.   She could curl up on the corner of my bed to sleep.  Fuzzy would never go hungry or be lonely again…  but that’s not my call.

I can’t take her in.  My brother really dislikes all animals.  My sister is severely allergic.  My mom definitely wouldn’t appreciate it.

So, here we are.  Fuzzy and me.  Both of us are not unwanted, but maybe not fully wanted.  Do we run into the light, despite the consequences, or do stay where it’s rough but safe, in an environment we know?   We’re not white.  We’re not black.
—  We’re gray.  We’re everything.