The charting of hope

This summer and fall I embarked on perhaps the second-biggest rescue/trapping project yet – the biggest having been the farm where we found 21 cats running amok a few years ago. This one was still sizable – 12 or 13 (number TBD since I’m not done yet) cats and kittens in a backyard colony near the harbor that were being fed by the homeowners.

Anytime you’re helping people who love the cats in question, things can get complicated by  their concerns for the cats’ well-being vs. your need to do things the way they work best – at least, according to your experience. The results can be fractious – even explosive – as I learned this summer. (I’d never the term Cat Nazi before and hope I never do again.) But as with every project no matter the size, there are tiny moments of huge inspiration, and this one was no exception.

It was overwhelming at first so I asked the couple to make me a chart of cats. I ended up living by this chart for the next couple of months, crossing off names as they were trapped and fixed, or caught and adopted.

The chart began to represent triumph (all four kittens in one litter adopted to great homes) and heartbreak: two or three kittens born to another mother, who were spotted briefly in the yard, then further away from the yard where mama had moved them, and then disappeared completely. (The harbor has seen its share of coyotes and foxes.) And one of the juveniles I TNR’d (Benson) was hit and killed by a car soon after his release.

It felt, at times, like I was running up a sand dune, unable to get a handle on, let alone complete, everything I had to do.

I thought I was at least done with the kitten wrangling when yet another fertile mom-cat showed up with just one kitten in tow – a tiny heartbreaker fluff-bomb who walked with a limp. The homeowners were able to catch him quickly and I took him straight to urgent care to see if he was nursing a broken leg. He was a cheerful little scamp, hobbling quickly on his bad leg, and I, along with all the hospital staff, fell in love with him quickly.

At my granddaughter’s urging, we called him Lion. And the diagnosis was swift: Lion was missing all his toes and part of his foot on a back leg. The doctor explained it could be a birth defect, or perhaps the cord was around his lower leg in utero, cutting off circulation. He seemed fine ambulating on part of a foot, but the doctor warned that in the future, he could develop bone sores and need surgery – or at least a special, fitted boot.

It was a fairly devastating diagnosis. Who would want to adopt a kitten that could need expensive surgery someday? And as much as I coveted him, I could not keep him myself. Then, I got a St. Francis-inspired idea. I remembered being told how the staff at the hospital fell in love with him, so I emailed and asked about potential adopters. The next day, I got a text: a vet tech wanted him, fully understanding the potential challenges ahead. A minor miracle, but one I was happy to receive.

This year has been horribly challenging for so many reasons – the pandemic being chief among them – and my own perspective has suffered greatly. I have sometimes felt adrift in a sea of loneliness, anxiety and grief for our country.

But there was something about this kitten that filled me with joy… and even hope. Watching him cheerfully hobble around his bathroom home, climbing up my pants leg, puffing up his tiny chest and growling at Big Mike (!), who is easily 20 times his size…  well, it was a much-needed dose of sunshine and light.

The project is not yet over, and it’s been exhausting and painful. But on we go, knowing that with each rescue situation, along with the heartbreaking moments there will be transcendent joys as well. Thanks, St. Francis, for the reminder.