The big cat settled into being a resident of our yard, coming faithfully to the food dishes on a daily basis, but he was so skittish that he would dash to cover whenever he saw or heard us. Many was the night I would pull the car into the driveway after work and catch a glimpse of him streaking around a corner or diving into the tall grasses. He had an impressive dignity about him and we felt because of his size he was better able than some to take care of himself. He was on our "to do" list to be trapped and neutered but although I set the trap out for him a few times, he ignored it.

Finally, on Thanksgiving Day 2004, he was lured into the cat trap by the smell of fresh turkey. We brought him inside--amid his hissing and trashing--and put him in the big cage in the spare room to calm down. He was so big that I was afraid of him but I spent some time talking to him that evening and the next morning I ventured close enough to touch him. He didn't strike out or try to bite me, so I continued gradually getting closer and petting him. It was soon obvious he had been a pet at one point in his life, before he found himself put outside and abandoned. His ears were gnarled from the frost, his foot pads thick and callused and his fur horribly matted. Under all that, he was a sweet-natured, calm and affectionate cat, adapting to his new living conditions without complaint.

A routine veterinary exam a week or so later revealed that the cat we were calling "Tommy" was infected with Feline Aids (FIV). He most assuredly hadn't been infected with this virus before his previous owners had put him outside to fend for himself but had picked it up in the process of fighting to make a place for and defend himself out in the wide, wild world.

I did some research on FIV, mostly concerned with the risks this would pose to our other cats. Tommy seemed healthy enough for now and our vet felt that if he wasn't given to biting, he wouldn't be much danger to the rest of the household. One thing that was essential was that he wasn't allowed outside, not only because of the danger of him infecting others with his virus, but because of the exposure to viruses and damage from other cats. Like human AIDS patients, Tommy is more in danger from what others could infect him with than he is at risk of infecting others. Since he is an easy-going fellow and not given to picking fights, Tommy joined our household.

Literature says that cats with FIV live an average of five years after diagnosis. We only got to keep Tommy for two-and-a-half years before the complications of his insidious disease overcame him. We tried our best to make them good years for Tommy. He was a quiet, gentle cat with an affectionate heart who deserved a much easier life than he was dealt, but we take a small amount of comfort in knowing that for the last few years, he was warm, well-fed and knew he was loved.