Braveheart was already a seasoned veteran of the outdoors when he showed up in my backyard with a a youngster, Mickey, in tow. I invited them in and Mick (what a doll!) came in within a few days and stayed. But Braveheart was just too fearful, he felt he knew better. Over the next two years he slept in a warm bed in my Florida room and was 'my' cat but wouldn't let me touch him. In nice weather with the door open he'd come in to watch TV with us, lounging on the carpet watching the other cats laying on me -oh, but not him! Then one day, as I lay on the couch, two cats jumped off me and left to get a bite to eat. Braveheart strolled over, blinked, and jumped on my stomach, curled up and took a nap. I was so startled but didn't move, so happy this old boy was finally happy to be home. I had named him Braveheart because I thought he might be part Scottish Fold - his ears were laid flat down. The vet said, no, it was the result of years of ear mites, which we remedied. He also had a broken tail. I still thought Braveheart fit him, sometimes called him Willy-Wally as a nick name (for William Wallace, the original Braveheart), or often just BH for short. He lived out the rest of his life happy to have have a home and always ready for a cuddle, making up for all the years he had no one.