Eureka!

I arrived a bit later than usual at the parking lot yesterday, and found my usual three anxiously waiting for their daily meal. As I approached, a couple walked by with their dog, and asked if I was feeding the ferals. I said yes. Then the woman said, “I saw a kitten just now, running around.” My heart leapt up, and I asked her to show me where. She pointed to an area near where I feed them. Mama Grace is a small cat and could be confused for a kitten, so I took her word with a grain of salt. I fed the three, and watched for a while as they ate. Nothing.

Being pressed for time and needing to get into SF, I returned to my car in resignation. Then something told me to look again, so I went back, and there (s)he was. So darling and sweet!! Maybe 8 weeks old, with mama’s Russian Blue genes in full evidence – even with the rippled fur that purebreds have as kittens. I held my breath and walked closer. “Baby Blue” didn’t even notice me, it was eating so frantically, its little body quaking with joy. I slowly retreated, deciding the time to start getting it used to me was not today. The routine, though, would begin with my next visit: talk to it, get it to trust my soft voice, let it equate my voice with food, and within a few days, start putting the trap near the food, and eventually, the food will go in the trap, and it will be MINE. At least temporarily. 🙂

I had a feeling there was only one kitten this time; Grace had shown me her belly one morning, and I could only see one nipple used. It’s possible that there were more, but Baby Blue seems to be the only one that survived. I’m sure it will find a home with a lucky friend or acquaintance who needs a cuddler. The cats of this gene pool are total sweethearts, despite their ignoble births.

And in another example of the cycle of birth and age, this morning I came downstairs and Mocha (pictured in the blog portrait) had pooped in her bed. Very loosely. The smell was permeating the entire area. She just looked up at me with those innocent, 20-year-old eyes as if to ask what was the big deal? Oh JEEZUS. The rigors of taking care of a cat whose age is equivalent to 100+.

When I brought her home from the parking lot 18 months ago, it was because I thought she was dying, and I couldn’t bear the idea of finding her little tortie body some morning. She had already lost Marvin, her mate of 15 years, and was stone deaf, narrowly avoiding cars in the parking lot. I thought I’d make her last months the only ones in her life that were filled with love. But thanks to modern medicine (steroids and antibiotics) she is humming right along, with only the occasional misstep like this morning. I love her so, and will be heartbroken when she goes, which in theory could be any day. But I’m happy to have provided her what every creature deserves: love and the sense that their life matters.