In the past, when I lived in the countryside in Italy, I only had cats that were free. One of them was allowed into the house, the others got food. Otherwise, we didn’t interfere with each other’s lives.
My ex, who I then met, suggested that we get a cat. It seemed weird to me, but okay.
He was a cute, little, wild, tiger-tailed guy who needed a lot of exercise and had weird habits. We couldn’t leave a sponge anywhere, because he would break every sponge into thousands of little crumbs and spread them around the house
was called Rocky.
And he got weird. He’d piss in the corners. If you pet him because he asked you to, he bit. And he’d meow for food and he’d eat anything, any amount.
After seven years of a neurotic hangover, we moved to the country. We were worried how he would react to his new environment.
It was a miracle and it taught me that neurosis and illness are just a crust around health.
He started climbing trees the very first day. The second day he brought the first mouse.
He ate normally, left what was too much. It was over.
He was harmonious, came to paint, did not bite and scratch any more.
And he only pissed outside.
Within a week we had a completely healthy hangover.
Never, never would I have dreamed of this. And he gave me hope for myself then. I was quite traumatized and never really in a suitable environment for me.
Rocky was all grown up. Nevertheless, he simply threw off his neurotic, sick crust and lived his new cat life in freedom.