It Runs in the Family
My numerous “almost 3rd dogs” do not come as a surprise to anyone in my family. The willingness to take strays in appears to be a genetic trait, or at least one that is passed down via nurture.
My brother found abandoned kittens when he lived in the Baltimore
My Aunt’s dog was named Moses, because she found him as a puppy along a river bed. He loved to swim. What I remember most about Moses was that if he was playing fetch with you, he could jump my grandparent’s fence without a thought to get that ball, and then right back over to return it to you. But if he wasn’t playing fetch, it didn’t really occur to him that he could get out.
Folly, or Hassell’s Folly, as was his full name, was a kitten my grandfather picked up outside a grocery store. He was standing next to a vending machine, have starved and dehydrated. My grandfather gave him some water, and the cat followed him, so home it came. Folly was an outdoor cat who never really liked anyone other than my grandfather, so about all I remember was that he was a big orange tabby who’d come in the house early in the morning to eat and then disappear again.
Sassy was our outdoor cat. She had been brought home by the neighbor who liked kittens and puppies but not cats and dogs. We hadn’t yet taken in one of her abandoned pets (many others in the neighborhood had), so when we had to put our Pooh cat to sleep, my parents agreed to let us keep Sassy. She liked people well enough, but was definitely an outdoor cat. When my father sold the house, Sassy stayed with it. She would have lasted less than a week in town.
My husband brought home a cat that kept wandering in to his office. He was a sweet little thing, loved people and cuddles, but the dogs, Moree especially, though he might exist to be chased. He was micro chipped, though, so we got him back to his people.