You like feral cats.
Used to be I didn't like them. Whenever our house cats wandered outside, they'd get their asses beaten by their wild brethren. So I took to sending my Staffordshire bull terrier out first to chase them away. She never caught one--and despite the tough exterior, I'm not convinced she would have actually hurt them (unless they made the mistake of standing up to her). But just as I had an epiphany about domestic cats, I've done an about face on the feral variety: if domestic cats are cool because they're tiny predators that live in your home, feral cats are just as cool for being predators that have reentered the wild animal kingdom. Think of them as feline dingos. (Now try to think of them as feline dingos without hearing Meryl Streep doing an Australian accent. Can't do it, can you?)
I owe feral cats. I tried to execute them with my dog. So this coming summer, I'm going to put together a feral cat shelter and stow it back in the woods; provide a little home for the vicious critters. I'm going high roller on it--two floors, weather sealed, mouse dispenser--the whole kitty and kaboodle. We've got coyotes back there, not to mention black bears, so I may have to take a further step and arm them with spears and slingshots.
Not guns, though. I'm not taking that chance again.
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