I grew up not on a farm, but in a convenient spot that people from the nearby city must have thought of as "country." We'd get a cat or two dumped off in our neighborhood every year, usually one that had been a "cute kitten" in the spring, but was now in that gawky stage ... The poor things had NO clue how to survive or hunt ... we had one on our porch (I'm terribly allergic) for much of a summer one year until he got catnapped. He was best friends with our dog, had a milk crate with a (flea-powder covered) old Army blanket in it, and when he finally managed to meow, it sounded like the cellar door squeak.
People don't think.
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