Four years ago my wife found a box of week-old kittens abandoned outside her office. They’d been left in a cardboard box with a bowl of water; it’s amazing none of them had drowned in it. She called me, frantic, as she was driving them to the vet to see what needed to be done. Or maybe she was driving home when she called, the rough outlines of a plan having already formed in her mind after talking to the doctor. I can’t remember any more. It’s one of those mercurial details that keeps sliding away. But ultimately what happened was she brought them home and we decided to foster them during their infancy until they were old enough to be adopted. We already had a dog, two cats, and a pair of finches,1 so adding five cats to that mix seemed absurd. But we didn’t want to turn them back into the world yet, either. They were too young for a shelter to take them, so we reasoned that we’d be able to find homes for them if we kept them healthy for a few weeks.
If you want to make God laugh, etc. The early stages of caring for the kittens were blurry and fearful. We prepared formula, fashioned a pen from a spare dog crate, bought them a heated stuffed animal with an electronic heart designed to mimic the presence of their absent mother; we nuzzled our mouths and jaws against the tops of their heads, a sign of comfort and love the vet told us would help them feel calm; we gently rubbed damp cotton swabs against their groins to teach them to urinate and defecate. We did not sleep much. Our guest room was given over to them entirely.
The vet didn’t want us to have any illusions about their life expectancy, telling us that, of the five, we’d be lucky if one survived. A few days after bringing the kittens home, the littlest one, a tiny scrapper we’d named Runty, began to slip away. His struggles were too great, and we had to put him to sleep. A few days after that, my wife went to check on them and found that one of the others — a bruiser we’d named Scooter, for his habit of scooting backward up our arms as we cradled him — had died in his sleep. The vet took care of him for us, too. We felt trapped and helpless by what was happening.
But then things got better. The three remaining cats — all girls — grew stronger and healthier. They’d been too weak to make any sound the day we found them; now they howled and clamored at meal time. We started taking more pictures. We rearranged the furniture in the guest so that they’d have space to wander around. They started eating solid food, and we felt more sure that the worst had passed. We entertained the notion of placing them in a good home, but we wanted them to stay together, and to be kept inside. A few people offered to take just one (usually the one with the white fur on her feet and face, like a mustache and socks), but it felt wrong. Time passed, and we grew attached. I grew attached. My wife and I had helped these little animals cling to life, and against unlikely odds, they’d survived. We talked less about finding homes for them, and we realized they’d been ours for a while.
I remember one day walking in to check on them and seeing that one of them had developed an eye infection: one eye was open and clear, the other was swollen and squinted shut. I was so worried about what would happen to her, but the vet said it was a common ailment in kittens. She gave us cream to apply to the eye twice a day, and I’d gently rub some around the little one’s eye as I fed her. We named her Squints. Some time later, she took to me. They all love us, of course. They play with us, climb on us, roll around happily. But Squints began to assert that kind of ownership that strikes pets seemingly of their own accord. She just likes me. As soon as I sit down, she climbs into my lap. She follows me around the house, waits for me outside the bedroom in the morning, scales my back to perch on my shoulders. I’m her human.
So now we have these grown cats, and every now and then my wife and I will look at each other and look back at them and realize that we have animals in our house, real animals, walking around and eating and pissing and everything, animals that give the house a sense of constant movement and habitation. A dog and five cats: we sometimes call our house “the menagerie.” But we’re bonded to them, and they to us.
We eventually found a new home for the finches. A dog and two small birds is fine; add cats to that, and you’ve made a food chain.↩