Owl the feral tom

I always had a soft spot for Owl, the big burly feral tom. Owl was the only adult male cat to ever hang out at my campsite for an extended period. So there was that. We were a couple of guys. All the rest of the adult cats at my campsite over the years were always females, for whatever reason.

Owl was a total feral, had survived on his own in the woods for many years, so he was like a wild animal that never really trusted me. Always looked at me warily, kept a respectful distance, and would retreat if I approached him. But over the years he relaxed enough where he would sometimes take little naps after eating from about 20 feet away from me.

Owl was a little beat up. A survivor of many hard winters in the woods. But I admired his toughness and self-sufficiency. And his swagger. He was like the total stud. The chicks at my campsite were like his personal harum. And he ruled the roost, so to speak . .

But every now and then he would seem to look at me with this sort of weary expression. Like we’re a couple of guys sort of commiserating together in a bar. Two guys living amongst all these females. And he’d sort of look at me like, “Women! Can’t live with em, can’t live without em. HRUMPH!!” Ha ha. Owl.

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