...

One of the feral cats I feed may have died. I haven't seen him in a while, and the life of a feral cat is typically quite short. I'm trying to balance anxiety, practicality, pessimism, and hope; it isn't going very well, though, and mostly I feel helpless and upset and am unable to let myself grieve or let myself believe he's okay.

I've never lived somewhere with a population of feral cats before. One of my cats growing up was a neighborhood cat who adopted us, but I don't remember seeing any others. Here, though, there's a lot.

There are a lot of things that can happen to a cat outside; there are predators, cars, bits of debris from human life, poisonous plants and broken glass, parasites, sick prey, poison, weather, and that's not to mention human cruelty. Any injury or illness at all could be deadly, living as they do without vet care.

Feral and stray cat populations are a problem in many places, and it is the sort of problem people tend to talk about while skirting around discussing the actual cause. Cats do not simply materialize; they are domesticated and non-native. There is no natural population of outdoor cats. The cats are there because people put them there; people abandon their pets, dump them outside and leave, and the population grows.

You may have heard that TNR – trap, neuter, release – programs aren't effective for reducing outdoor cat populations, but you might not have heard why: it's because people continue to dump cats outside. A managed feral colony that's all neutered will continue to grow because people think it's "okay" to throw their cat into the colony.

Unneutered cats are a problem. It's good to keep TNRing, to keep the population from ballooning – although the majority of kittens born outside die, cats can get pregnant very young and very frequently – but it doesn't get at the root of the issue.

There are multiple roots. One being, of course, that having a pet is expensive. Cat food isn't covered by food stamps, vet visits aren't covered by health insurance. Cat litter and food are expensive, vet visits are massively expensive. Rent is higher if you have a pet and pet-friendly housing is harder to find.

Shelters are always pretty much at capacity everywhere, unable to keep up with the overwhelming numbers of abandoned companion animals.

And, of course, people are cruel. Sometimes unintentionally. Plenty of people simply don't care. Even more people just don't think much about the consequences of their actions.

There is a terrible ambivalence that comes with caring for feral cats; I like it and find it fulfilling, but it is also deeply upsetting. I wish I could take them all inside; I wish I tell them that I am here to help; I wish I could tell them I'm sorry they weren't cared for the way they should have been.

Earning the trust of these cats is taking a very long time. Some are more amenable than others; even after more than a year of feeding them every day, most are still too scared to be anywhere near me.

It's a fool's endeavor to be emotionally invested in the wellbeing of what are essentially wild animals. Maybe it's also foolish to love something that cannot love you back; it certainly feels foolish. Alas, I am a fool. I care a lot, too much, about these cats I can't afford to care for. It hurts to see them unwell or hurt or frightened. I am distraught that one may have died. I knew I would be, knew this would happen, and yet. The knowing does not make it hurt less. I wish it did.

For the past few nights I've dreamed that he was okay; in my dreams I see him again and I think, oh thank god, he's back, he's alright. Sometimes in the dreams I can finally touch him, pat him, and he's happy to see me.

When I'm awake, I torment myself thinking of what could have happened, imagining his cat corpse – blood-matted fur from an animal attack or the mangled crush of roadkill, maybe he curled up somewhere and never woke up, maybe I'll find him in the yard – and imagining how it's all my fault. What if he came here for help and I didn't know? What if he screamed and I didn't hear? What if he needs help right now? What if he is waiting for me, hoping I will come and find him?

Maybe he's okay. I'm checking every day. I've filmed the porch with my webcam for a few days in a row and nothing. I don't know when I'll be able to let myself believe he's really gone; how many days of nothing will convince me? I don't know. It's winter and he didn't come around every day last year. Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe I've just missed him. Maybe he'll be here tomorrow.

And if not? If I accept that he's dead, what then? I don't know. I have nowhere to put that grief. Grief for an animal that I never got within five feet of! Not even pet-adjacent. Just a cat.

And if he does come back – what then? He will die one day. They all will. I think part of me thinks that I'll suddenly become rich before that happens, that I'll magic my way into a fortune and buy a mansion and put them all in it and let them live the rest of their days in comfort and safety, tending to their every need with my infinite wealth, and then I won't have to feel so awful when they die.

It's hard. I'm worried and sad. If I'm being honest, he's my favorite of the outdoor cats, even though I can't get near him. He's a good cat. I hope he's okay.