Pokey has forgiven me for taking his ‘kids’ away.
On Tuesday I bundled them up and drove them to their new home in the East Bay. After I got home to see the kitten-rearranged room, full of toys and knocked over books, but sooooo very quiet, and lacking in baby energy, I cried. And Pokey stayed under the bed, looking peeved and miserable. Later, he came out from under the bed and meowed plaintively. I cried again.
(Having never been a cryer, this new phase of my life – the one in which my heart is cracked open on an almost daily basis, to welcome a flood of both joy and sadness – is challenging to me.)
He finally let me cuddle him after a couple of days of confused standoffishness. 
But Charlotte and Wilbur are the ones I worry about. Now in a strange home and without their ‘nanny’ Pokey, I can sense their anxiousness all the way from Oakland. I get daily updates from the wonderful Janine, who is being an excellent kitten-mom, being patient and kind with them as they adapt, but I still miss them and light a candle daily that they relax and become cuddlers quickly, and bring as much joy into Janine’s life as they did in mine.
I treasured the seven weeks I had them. Watching them morph from hissing, angry little beasts with parasites and fleas, to the beautiful, sweet kittens they became. The pleasure of Wilbur’s exquisite Russian Blue fur – almost like chinchilla in its softness and density – and his floppy silliness, how he would struggle for a second in my arms, almost like a little boy who pretends he doesn’t want to be cuddled, only to melt into grateful acceptance. And Charlotte, the bolder but oddly more aloof sibling, who nonetheless adored it when I would lie with her on the bed, petting her sleeping form until her motor revved and her purr would kick in. She would stretch languidly and look up at me with blinking eyes, reaching a paw to my cheek as if to ask why I had stopped. If he is a goofy, gentle Shrek, she is the peppery Fiona. (I think it’s magic that I chose their names from a children’s book, before knowing they were going to a family with children.)
Even as I write this, the lump in the throat starts. Time to stop – I have more work to do. Almost magically, as soon as the kittens were gone, I was tapped by St. Francis to intervene in the lives of two new kitties – both of whom I believe were house pets – who have come into my sphere needing urgent help. I’ll write about that more next time.
Meanwhile, I am thrilled that Charlotte and Wilbur have found a wonderful home, but wondering if saying goodbye ever gets easier.