She's black as night and in perfect shape, albeit camera shy and runs away every time I try to take her picture, She leads me on as only she can do. She's a feral cat but I'm convinced she was an exotic dancer in her previous lifetime.
She comes to me, gently calling me just as she has done for seven years since I found her too small to eat solid food, raising her on bowls of milk mixed with the liquid poured from canned tuna. Only years later did I learn that cow's milk and tuna are said to be bad for cats.
She comes to be but after seven years I'm still not allowed to touch her. Oh occasionally I pet her back and she arches up against my fingers obviously enjoying the rub but then she turns her head to see it is me and pulls away, he eyes open wide, paw raised as if she is going to slap me but never does. I'm reminded of that girl when I was young that told everyone she wanted nothing to do with me but melted upon my touch.
But she comes to me expecting rewards. Like an exotic dancer expects cash to be placed into her garter, my Panther expects a treat-- something more than ordinary cat food. And once she gets her treat the show is over, she's off, somewhere else, perhaps to get more cash placed into her garter by another just like exotic dancers do.
And like a lonely young man who wastes his hard earned money stuffing bills into garters hoping to buy the attention of an exotic dancer, I keep giving Panther treats in the hopes that someday she'll trust me.