The magic of that first purr

The kittens have traded personalities now. Mischa is now more outgoing, while Frankie remains steadfastly peevish and reticent. I moved them from the garage to a small watercloset upstairs, which has a high window for some natural light. They will outgrow it in days, but it’s a good first spot for them in the quest to get them used to the sights and sounds of the indoor life. So I turn on the TV in the outer room, and know they’re going to be freaked all over again for a few days.

Except that on that first day, when I took Mischa on my lap for a cuddle, he settled down immediately, closed his copper eyes… and began to purr. It felt like a tiny miracle, given that less than two weeks ago, he was bashing around the cage I trapped him in, and I feared he would die of terror. I was starving for dinner, but could not bear to move for around 20 minutes – perhaps irrationally fearful that it would be the only time he would do it.  When I put him back down on the blanket with Frankie, she stared at him. What the hell is that noise you’re making? Are you possessed?

I needn’t have worried it was a one-time thing – even after an ordeal like the one they had yesterday. I had decided to ask the mobile vet to come and check them out for general health, test for FIV, and deworm them (almost all ferals come with parasites – the hazard of eating food off the ground). They were stunningly “good” – both Dr. MacInnes and her assistant marveled at how quietly they sat during examination, and didn’t fuss when they had to draw blood from their upturned necks. (I had to look away – I could never watch Erin getting an injection as a baby, and then would cry when she cried.)

Examination done, pronounced FIV negative and surprisingly healthy minus the giveaway “Buddha belly” that indicates parasites, the kittens retreated into a traumatized huddle in their little house-box. I left them there to recover a few hours, and when I returned in the twilight hour, I could only see their outlines in the dark of the box. I reached in and felt Mischa’s sweet back, and petted him blindly. And it was almost immediate: prrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

The resilience of critters, to adapt and to bend and to open themselves to love, never fails to astound.

Now the tough part: choosing the right time to get them spayed and neutered (Dr. Mac won’t do it this young, but everyone else will) and then finding them a home. I am committed to them being adopted together, unless the circumstances are perfect for them to go separately. (i.e. another cat to welcome them solo.) Even as I write this I feel the tear ducts activate. Can one really fall in love with a critter in two weeks? Apparently so.