A cat who lived on his own

When I was 15, my dad and I rescued a kitten from some neighborhood kids who had nearly tortured it to death. We got the kitten in a very poor condition—one of its eyes was burned out, and its front leg was broken. The little rascals cut off its whiskers with scissors and broke its tail in several places.

It was close to death, but we managed to save it. We nursed it for almost a month, spoon-feeding it, and carrying it around.

The kitten grew up, but we couldn't earn its trust. It was completely wild—it wouldn't let us hold it, it hissed, scratched, and always tried to run away. It never ate in front of us and never lay down in front of us. Its favorite place was the top shelf of the closet—it spent almost all its time there, ignoring us completely. It ate at night, while we were sleeping. He also used the toilet. His whole demeanor made it clear to us that he didn't need our services.

Years passed. Thomas (as we named him) continued to spend his time on the closet and whiled away his days with enviable regularity—sleeping, occasionally going down for a drink of water. Not a single member of our family could proudly say that the cat loved him. It felt like he hated us all. Thomas even ignored his natural reproductive instinct—for four years, he never succumbed to the "call of spring." But at the same time, he never defecated in the corners and went to his strictly designated place. However, only at night. We never caught him doing "that" for four years.

Then our dad got sick. He had a very serious illness—esophageal cancer. Dad spent a lot of time at the doctor's, but the chances of recovery were slim—the doctors gave him no more than eight months.

 One day, when we were having dinner as a family, Thomas deigned to come into the kitchen with us. He simply came in, jumped onto an empty chair, and sat next to us, occasionally squinting at the lamp on the table. Honestly, we didn't really pay attention because our thoughts were only about Dad, who was lying in the room, unable to eat at all... Thomas stayed with us until the end, and then departed just as proudly. But he didn't retreat to the mezzanine, as before, but to Dad's room. There, he climbed onto Dad's stomach and stretched out in a regal pose.

When we saw this scene, our thoughts were mixed. Mom then said the following:

"What the hell is he doing, the bitch, kidding me..." (referring to the cat).

Mom hit the cat with a towel and tried to chase him away. But Thomas huddled under the blanket and only hissed at every blow he received from Mom. Her father, awakened, reassured her, asking her not to chase Thomas away, as he suddenly felt better...

From that day on, Thomas traded the mezzanine for his father's bed. He still hissed when they tried to shoo him away, and swung his broken tail from side to side.

Three months passed. Thomas lost a significant amount of weight and barely ate. He spent all his time on his father's bed. Occasionally, he allowed himself to be petted and even purred once in his entire life. But only briefly, for about ten seconds. Then he began hissing again and looking at everyone with an arrogant expression.

When my father was taken to the hospital, Thomas suddenly approached the front door and began meowing loudly. We were very surprised, because for over five years, he had never made a sound. Mom expressed her opinion:

"Well, nature has finally called!"

And she let him out into the street. We were sure he would return. But Thomas didn't. But then, my father returned. With a new diagnosis, he's "absolutely healthy."

Thomas has been gone for three years. My father says he took his illness away. Maybe so. But since then, we think about our "wild" cat every day and keep waiting for him to return...