The first thing that caught my attention, as I opened the inside garage door one morning, was a pair of wide eyes surrounded by the face of a large cat. I sized him up immediately; orange swirl coat, massive head, scars from a few fights, mature male, wary of strangers, not frightened enough to flee.

The cat sized me up, as well: average height skinny human, chronologically mature male, bad hair day, apparent cat lover, absent minded enough to leave the garage door open from time to time, potential source of free meals. I took a step forward. He turned and darted under the car. Seconds later, his black nose appeared at the front edge of the rear tire, floating above two huge orange paws.

It's true that I had left the outside garage door open all night, which explained how he got in. Since he didn't run away, I assumed he was hungry and hoping for something to eat, like the hobos who used to ride the freight trains. They would show up at the farm houses along side the rail road tracks, offering to do odd jobs in exchange for a good meal.

"Your just a hobo, looking for a hand out, aren't you?" I asked, fully expecting him to understand. "Wait here. I'll bring you something."

What's the first thing you think of offering a cat to gain its trust? Milk. Moments later I returned, placed a saucer of milk on the garage floor and said, "Here you go, Hobo." Just like that, he had a name.

He had waited. I could still see his nose and paws behind the tire. I backed away from the saucer, taking a seat on the floor. I waited, not daring to move for fear of scaring him. Soon, the nose got up enough courage to pull its face forward for a better look. Hunger overcame fear and Hobo began to slink toward the saucer, periodically glancing over his shoulder, confirming his emergency escape route.

Because Hobo had accepted my offering of sustenance and appeared comfortable with my close proximity, I assumed I had easily gained his trust. I leaned forward, reaching out to pet him. As my hand gently touched his back, he suddenly flipped himself over, grabbed my hand in his needle-sharp claws, bit the side of my palm, then ran out the garage door. Across the street in front of a meadow on which more houses like mine were soon to be built, Hobo sat looking back at me.

I just stood there in my garage, holding my bleeding hand and wondering about the chances that this stray cat could be rabid. I honestly didn't know much about rabies. I assumed that if I sought medical attention without having captured the cat, I would have to undergo a series of painful rabies shots. But how was I to catch this cat? If I were able to capture him, would they keep him for observation or put him down? Suppose I were able to keep him around with food and observe him myself, what would I do if he failed to show up one day? It was a very long night and I made a very stupid decision.

Love you,
Grandpa
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