I transported my three elderly cats halfway across the world when we emigrated. How could I possibly have left them behind; I was there when they were born? They spent their last years having a wonderful time here, but I was determined to be firm that we would have no more pets. That didn't prevent me from feeding a feral cat that we named L-In, short for Little Intruder and then, later, her kittens, whom we named Nelson (after our nearby city), Richmond, where we live and Wakefield (the nearby village where my daughter lives). Then they all got pregnant again and there were heaps more kittens, including a tiny little scrap, no bigger than a hamster, that Wakefield brought to my door. I don't think he was her kitten as hers was clearly older and bigger. Anyway, we took him in and set alarm clocks for three-hourly feeds. We never intended to keep him and were planning to ask the SPCA to re-home him once he was eating solid foods and lapping water. Meanwhile, he was called Squeaker Boots because of his tiny little mew.
Now he is a great big, beautiful, splotchy, furry, fluffy thing who sleeps on my bed, bites my feet in the morning and drapes himself to dangle over my shoulder when I am trying to read. He is clearly here for the duration and a figure in the all the family's life. The grandchildren adore him.
As for the other feral kittens, most were rehomed but one, called by us Little Leopard, is not only still around but finds her way through open windows and spends quite a lot of time dozing on our sofas. Squeaks even gives her priority at his breakfast dish in the morning. All the females have been neutered and the one remaining tom lurks and scurries up for food when the "ladies" have left. HGe is definitely a cowardy custard.