Our latest feral cat has taken over a month to overcome enough nervousness to keep from diving under the house at our least movement, to emerge and sit near us when we are on the porch, and to come inside on occasion to feed on the kitchen counter. She looks so huggable that it takes great self-control not to spook her out with constant approaches. The girls have had it impressed upon them that the cat must make most of the moves.
Midday today I was making friendly overtures with some slivers of meat dangling enticingly from my fingers, but the pounces only happened as soon as I dropped them.
This evening, though, came an excited call from granddaughter Rhiannon on the intercom — finally, daughter Robyn managed to stroke the cat who apparently immediately discovered she loved this sort of attention and squirmed herself inside out, purring. The first time, to our fairly certain knowledge, that she had ever been petted. I do so wish I had seen it.
Probably any non-cat person would be bewildered at how thrilled we all are.