Sometimes cats show up on my porch to eat and I don’t understand how they can be that goddamn skinny and still be alive. Alice was one of them, and then Boris showed up. I initially called him Boston, but he was this awkward, amicable, think, gangly cat that reminded me of an Eastern European friend. So I changed his name to Boris.

This cat, as skinny as he was, had a disturbingly large set of balls on him. Now I admit, because of my mission, I look at cat balls too often to identify the ones that need to be removed. But when he comes around to eat, his skinny frame and short fur do nothing to hide the large pair of cajones on the back end of him.

He’s skittish and sad, with a big, angular face. Very light brown tabby. And very skinny.