I never saw Florence's cat Rusty until I had been visiting her for over a month. After that I'd occasionally see him jumping off Florence's wheelchair and running into the bedroom as I walked in her front door.
Rusty was scrawny and old although I often saw him running, which made him appear spry. I did touch him one time, and his back felt like a line of stones. He bucked forward under my touch and ran into the bedroom.
Florence liked Rusty, but I never got any sense that she couldn't live without him. Rather, it seemed Rusty was there because he was a cat, and because Florence was old and lonely, and needed a cat. I guessed someone gave her Rusty. Someone who decided Florence was old and lonely and needed a cat. There was never much excitement when Rusty was around. He would, she told me, sit on her lap during part of the day, and the other part of the day he'd lay under the bed.
Florence had pictures of other cats that she'd had during her life. Odd looking Polaroid snapshots; a black cat wearing a bonnet, a tabby with red eyes wearing a Santa Hat, and a fat older looking cat that looked like it was at the end of its life.
Cats always present something of an unknown. This is both attractive and repelling. A cat is certain of himself, and chooses his friends discerningly. Cats also suffocate babies, and could possibly survive independently, as opposed to dogs who love unconditionally out of fear and ineptitude.
In the end, Rusty would fall into the unknown category. One day his behavior became strange and ornery and he attacked Florence's arm unprovoked. He gashed her arm open and she had to go to the hospital. Naturally, Rusty was taken away by the Humane Society and likely euthanized within the week