Jane Ganahl

Life handed me a doozy of a lesson earlier this month when I had to undergo my first major surgery in the form of a knee replacement. I’d been feeling pretty cocky that I’d managed to escape any major illnesses or mishaps, but man, did this interject a note of harsh reality. Not only did the surgery and hospitalization prove a lot more grueling than I’d imagined, the entire process – exacerbated by my intolerance of pain meds – messed with my head. Or more accurately, my sense of myself as a vital, energetic and INDEPENDENT person.

It was humbling having someone here when I got home (mostly my wonderful daughter Erin) to help me with everything from medications to potty breaks. Ugh. Thankfully that phase didn’t last long, and soon I was able to do most things for myself. But it was a sobering reminder of aging and the fragility of life. I found myself feeling anxious about everything: where I was going with my life, what could go wrong – even my cats’ health.

Ginger, the ancient (probably 18) street cat I brought home five years ago, has lung cancer. I’ve known this for months now. They say it’s a slow-moving kind, and she could be around for a good while yet, but I was looking at her with new eyes. The restless and unpredictable tortie decided to claim an empty ornament box at the base of the Christmas tree for her new bed, and while I lay on my sofa, I would watch her sleeping.

“How many more Christmases do you have left?” I asked her softly. “I think maybe this is your last one.” And then, as befitting my exhaustion and sober mood, I burst into tears. Hearing me, she rose on stiffened legs, walked over and climbed up onto the couch to get in my face, rubbing hers on mine.

In five years, she has never done this once.

I chuckled. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thanks for the reminder.” If we can just rise above temporary setbacks, crummy diagnoses and even physical pain, what there always is, is love and connection. And being present in the joy of NOW.

Happy holidays and and excellent critter love to all.

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you know how emotionally ill-equipped I am at times to accept the ground rules of feral cat care:

1. you can’t take them all home with you.
2. some of them will n-e-v-e-r let you touch them.
3. many of them will die.

I’ve ignored all these ground rules frequently, but none more than accepting that many of them will die. My last post was about Tom, the alpha male at the farm, and how he was starting to fail. Just a few days after writing, he disappeared and in my heart, I knew he had passed.

I am told that ferals will decide when it’s time, wander off to a favorite quiet place, and let go. If THEY should accept this passing easily, why can’t I? I realized the other week that it had been a stunning five months since Prince Harry showed up sick and then disappeared, and still each day when I go to his spot to feed a new kitty there, I well up with tears and get a knot in my stomach, thinking that perhaps I failed him somehow.

Simone suggested a meditation I could do at the two feeding spots: thank Harry and Tom for the good times, tell them I love them and tell them they should go, and not linger because their time here was done. It wasn’t as hard to say goodbye to Tom – I expected his passing for weeks before it happened. But Harry’s departure was such a shock. I had fed and sheltered him for three years and had been unable to say goodbye. And as I choked on my words of benediction, a moth fluttered in my car window and sat on the steering wheel, flexing its wings in a friendly hello. It took my breath away; I really sensed that Harry was sending me a sweet message. And when I finished, it fluttered away. And with the moth, my feelings of heaviness departed.

At the same time as I was trying to let go, I was also trying to connect. Mr. Tux, the handsome new youngster at the farm (now fixed and vaccinated by my group), has come tantalizingly close to letting me pet him, only to get spooked and duck away from my touch. In my emotional mind, I think if I can get him to love human interaction, perhaps I can find an adopter, and he won’t end up like so many others – dying prematurely from illness or predators. So I persist. And persist. Every day he’s there, I extend a hand, and the dance begins. He ducks and parries, even as he purrs and kneads the ground happily.

And finally, I get what I’m looking for: IMG_2343

(or here if the video doesn’t play: https://youtu.be/YQiIDjxslD0)

Is it any wonder we rescue types lose perspective and ignore the ground rules?  🙂

Thanks, Saint Francis, for the reminder that even as feline relationships dissipate into treasured memory, new ones can be born. Just remind me of the ground rules occasionally before I bring another one home.

With the festival starting later this week, and my hair on fire with stress and last-minute details, I need the entertainment value of my strays more than ever. The first two stops of my daily three are low in EV, but my third stop – at the farm on Higgins Canyon – never fails to amuse.

There has been some serious heartache there to be sure. I blogged this winter about finding the body of one of the seven cats – a beautiful Russian Blue – after a mountain lion boldly came on the property and got him. It was an incredibly painful reminder about the perils of getting attached. And now, the alpha male of the group – cranky old Tom, the brown tabby – is on his last legs. He is frail and forgetful, has little appetite and seems to sleep most of the time. I keep thinking any day I’ll arrive in the morning and he will be gone – perhaps having found a quiet bush or creek bed to surrender himself and shuffle off this mortal coil.

Tom, it must be said, has been a serious jerk to any new cats who venture onto the farm. I’ve told myself often: it’s not his fault. It’s in the DNA of an alpha male to run competitors off. Many people don’t realize feral cats colonies operate like prides of lions – though I have yet to see a gazelle carcass nearby. They are slightly more subtle, but only slightly.

Which is why it’s been interesting and kind of poignant to see Tom relate to a new kitty who suddenly appeared at the farm a couple of months ago. At first he was fiercely indignant, sending the interloper scrambling for safety. But because of his waning health, and after trapping Mr. Tux and having him neutered, Tom has softened a bit. I’ve been feeding Tux on the far side of the farm, and have been greatly amused by watching their pas de deux. First the ears are flattened and the backs arched. Then they sit, acting nonchalant. Then Tux keels over on his side in total submission. Finally, Tom sniffs at the food, maybe takes a few bites because he can, and lopes off, leaving Tux confused but pleased.

 BACK OFF, INTERLOPER!

 OH, UH… I GUESS THERE’S ENOUGH FOR US BOTH.

 I’M JUST GOING TO LICK THIS TO MAKE IT CLEAR WHO’S BOSS.

Honestly, it’s about as exciting as Wild Kingdom ever was – and twice as cute! Mutual of Omaha, give me a call!

Perhaps I’m stressing the amusement of the situation because it’s less painful than dealing with Tom’s impending demise. He seems to get more frail every day. There’s a whole other blog entry that I could write about the struggle I go through, not knowing when to intervene in a stray’s failing health. I vowed to help cats; that also means not letting them suffer, but farm cats have been living and dying on their own terms forever. So I continue to fret until such time as the course is abundantly clear, love them from a distance, and chuckle at their wild ways.

All week long I’ve been intending to write the spring newsletter for my nonprofit, Coastside Feral Care, but I’ve been having trouble getting started. I’ve done enough of these to know that most people want to hear the glad tidings! The happiest stories – not the failures or the heartbreaks of your rescue work.

But this week I’ve also been dealing with a disappearance, and that has derailed me and made it hard to “think happy.” Beautiful Prince Harry (see two posts ago) showed up Monday looking like he felt crummy, and then vanished. This is after more than three years of rarely missing a meal. His faltering came on the heels of someone writing a complaint about him on Next Door – saying cats should not be fed “so close to restaurants”… which are way across the parking lot. I did my best to answer civilly, and got a lot of supportive comments. Then Harry turned up sick. And by the next day, when I brought a carrier to take him to the vet, he was gone.

I’ve never thought much of human beings in general, but even I can’t imagine someone poisoning Harry, a homeless cat who minds his own business except for the occasional nap on the sidewalk on a sunny afternoon. So I choose to think something else has happened. What I also refuse to consider is that I won’t ever see him again. He has always been such a bright spot in my morning. And he has many fans – people who work in the offices nearby and delight to see him waiting in the tree for his meal. So I posted a flyer on the fence for my missing boy – something I’ve never done before – and hope maybe one of his fan club will spot his strawberry mane amid the brambles of the ravine.

I talked to a friend who does rescue, and she wondered if such disappearances – and I’ve had dozens – have gotten easier since 2011 when I took up this cause. I thought a moment and then tears welled up. “No,” I said, “they never do. And goddamnit I wish they would.”

I go through the classic Kubler-Ross stages of grief each time. Right now I’m in anger – that there are still no adequate facilities for homeless/feral cats (except the pound, where they wouldn’t last a day), and that I get harassed sometimes for keeping them alive and showing them kindness.  But mostly I get sad, as I am right now, that once again a cat in my care may have perished, and that the “care” I give them is so limited in scope. Then again, if he really is gone for good, I am comforted in knowing I did my best for Prince Harry. And I’ll get back to the happy stories eventually.

Like Frodo, the kitty who was abandoned on the farm where I feed. He went from getting whomped on by the farm cats to sitting on the lap of an elderly woman who cherishes him… Now, if I could only focus on such things…

My two favorite days of the month are when I have Shannon (almost 2!) to myself on every other Friday, when Erin has to work but doesn’t have daycare. They spend Thursday night here so I get some mom-daughter time as well. And on Friday mornings Shannon goes with me on my rounds. It really is a collision of the two passions in my private world, and sometimes the joy is almost overwhelming.

We’ve been doing this almost a year, and I wonder what her toddler brain processes. Let’s see… “Nama” has a bunch of cats at home that it seems like she feeds all day… but then we get in the car… and drive into some woods and to a farm and a parking lot… and she feeds some more? As she gets older, she’ll start to understand what it’s about: compassion and love for all critters, especially those without a home.

Right now, though, for her it’s just an opportunity to go for a drive to pretty places while eating snacks in the car (always snacks!), singing songs at top volume (“Old MacDonald” and “Happy Birthday” are favorites) and seeing kee-tees! which she adores.

(The kee-tees are less enthused; they scatter when she bellows “HI!” at top volume.)

There are moments when I see in her clear and open eyes a glimmer of understanding. The other day, I opened the garage door and was about to put her in her car seat when I noticed a snail on the driveway behind the car. “Oops,” I told her, “Let’s put the snail where it’s safe.” I picked it up and she followed me over to the bushes, where I lay it gently down. She pointed to it, and looked into my face. “Snail,” she said. “Safe.” She lingered another minute, looking at it in wonderment.

And I felt a moment of hesitation. I was n-e-v-e-r as tender and woke as I am now; as a child I remember pouring salt on snails and watching them curl up and foam. I don’t expect her parents (especially her father) are at all concerned about snail safety. And maybe there’s a reason it takes most people until their senior years to have their eyes and hearts pried open; maybe children need a tougher skin to get through those critical early years. Am I doing her a disservice to model such bordering-on-neurotic reverence for life?

I suppose it’s possible, but I choose to see it as teaching her quietly, from my grandmaternal pulpit. And any minute now, she could decide I’m completely nuts, which is what kids do in every generation. I just hope some of it sinks in.

In some cultures, the grandparent is the family member charged with a child’s spiritual growth. In this one, grandparents are often not part of that inner circle, and shunted off to the side, where they’re held in the same regard as DeSoto cars and Jello-and-tuna pie. I’m lucky to be trusted enough to be the kind of hands-on grandma I always wanted to be; the kind my mother was.

I have said for two years now that nothing would make me happier than to retire and be Shanny’s nanny. But that will take a significant change of fortune (or perhaps the sale of my kids’ book?) because I live in the Bay Area and can’t afford to retire. In the meantime, I get her every other Friday and can fill her little brain with my well-meaning propaganda.

“Where kee-tee go?” she demanded one rainy morning, after Prince Harry disappeared into the bushes after his breakfast. “Wha’ happened tee-tee?” She peered into the ravine searching for a glimpse of his blond mane as I held an umbrella over her red head.

“Harry went to get out of the rain,” I told her. “Harry doesn’t have a home. It’s why it’s good that we feed him.”

She looked up at me with a wide stare, and took my hand to walk thoughtfully back to the car.

My granddaughter Shannon has arrived at the age (20 months) where she knows what feels right… and what doesn’t. She asks for pear slices, devours them hungrily, and then looks in distress at her sticky hands, which she raises up to me anxiously. “HENS!” she cries. “HENS!” Then I take a moist dishrag, wipe off her “hens,” and all is right again with the world.

I wish it were that easy with some of my ferals.

Prince Harry (so named for his strawberry mane) has lived for 3-4 years now at the Stone Pine ravine – a pretty rough place that has “disappeared” so many cats that I’ve loved. He is a darling boy – chatty and boisterous, and it took a few years but he’s now affectionate as well, greeting me every day with purring, rubbing and rolling on the ground.

I have written previously about the challenges of sheltering him near his feeding area, which is an ongoing source of frustration. (The city adamantly refuses to allow a shelter because of the sensitive habitat, which I salute… except that the homeless use the creek area for a latrine every day.) So Harry is literally left out in the cold.

Every day I feed Eddie behind the Post Office, where he can dash into a manufactured shelter anytime, and that feels right to me. And I go to the farm where I feed 5-7 hungry cats, and they come running out of the barn, and THAT feels very right to me. But then I go to Stone Pine on a rainy day, and there is Harry, his fluffy coat slicked with rain, up in the tree. (Yes, he has found a spot that is at least a little bit sheltered in a box hedge.) And it all feels completely, totally wrong. So wrong that I sometimes choke with tears.

It’s been a bully of a winter – with record rainfall, snow on our lower peaks and incessant cold. But Harry continues to bring his happy-boy routine every day when I arrive. His spirit is an amazing thing, even if it falters in the cold sometimes.  It’s been enough to make me start thinking maybe I should relocate Harry; maybe there’s a better place for him somewhere. I hesitate when remembering the one time he was confined a few years ago. He spent a month of rehab time at my friend Caitlin’s indoor enclosure after being badly mauled by a predator, and although he was sweet in the beginning, as soon as he started feeling better physically, Harry got pissed, and was soon hissing and swatting at his caretaker. We reluctantly put him back by the parking lot, where he has remained mostly happy since.

Then we were approached by someone wanting a barn cat, to replace one who had recently died. My heart leapt up – could this be the break Harry needed? I envisioned a big, warm barn – the likes of which I spent time in during childhood – with an enclosed tack room they could enclose him in while he got his bearings. I asked to visit the barn, but it was really more of a stable with corrals – very small inside (really, more like a shed) and the tack room could not be closed to the outside, so Harry would have to spend weeks in a dog crate, with horse noses just a foot or two away. Envisioning my freedom-loving boy in such surroundings made me feel like Shannon with sticky hands: it just felt wrong. So I thanked her for her kind offer, and went home to feed Harry an early-evening dinner.

“Sorry, Harry,” I told him. “But I think you would have hated it.”

So the search goes on for a place for my princely boy. But I’m grateful to have done this enough years now to know what feels right and what feels wrong.

I vowed to not blog again until I had something cheerful to say, after my last grief-stricken entry about Iggy’s sudden-ish death. But it’s been a rough 6-7 weeks since his passing, and I feel like I should report regardless of my blues. Two more cats in my care died a few weeks ago: Nieblo (fog), a beautiful grey fellow at the farm where I feed, whose predator-ravaged body I discovered on New Year’s Day, and McGee, Erin and Jonathan’s elderly cat, whom I volunteered to catsit at my house the week after Christmas so they could take a little trip. Not unlike Iggy, McGee’s cancer was an insidious, undiagnosed-but-speculated ailment, and it also took him quickly – so quickly that the mobile vet didn’t make it to my house before he passed on his own.

Those weeks were, in a word, awful. I felt punch-drunk from loss and the weight of what I could have done differently.

But, because it was the holidays, I also got some wonderful cards and emails from people who have adopted from me. The two rowdy little black girls I blogged about this fall (Lizzie and Emma) are now fully running their new home, and much adored by their new empty-nest family.

All four kitties who had been turned out when the county took away their owner with dementia in November are now in homes – a resolution that fills me with great pride. The oldest of the four, a black female named Sheba, hid under her new mom’s bed for weeks, coming out only for meals and box use. And I got this the other day: “Guess who is sitting right next to me purring her little heart out? Yep! Sheba!”

So… miracles do happen, which keeps my chin off the ground and keeps me in the game when I question whether I have the heart and the gumption to keep doing this after such a series of losses.

Without Iggy, things have shifted among my indoor brood. Big Mike – always the lowest on the totem pole despite being the largest in size – is making a run at the alpha male position. I can’t sit on a comfy chair for more than five minutes without his bulky frame filling my lap… and then some. He keeps me in constant giggles and lifts my spirits

My wish for 2019 is to do a better job at walking the fine line between compassion and an aching heart, between strength and coldness. In other words, I need to find a way to do this work without it taking such a toll. It’s a challenging “sweet spot” to find spiritually, but I’m confident I can get there. I need to; both Lena and Ginger might not be with me long. (Lena, Iggy’s mom, might have the same disease that caused his death, and Ginger’s miraculous remission from mouth cancer might be ending.)

St. Francis, guide my gaze toward the wonderful things that come from my efforts, and help me understand that helping animals cross the bridge is one of the greater services I can provide in this lifetime. And while we’re at it, help me make 2019 a year of more happy stories than sad!

Iggy was the kitten who convinced me to never adopt another kitten. Rambunctious, too smart for his own good, fearless, the white-with-black mini-monster earned the name Iggy Pop within days of being adopted 12 years ago. I’d be plucking him off a high shelf one moment, dragging him down from drapes the next. I’d watch, heart in throat, when he’d leap from dangerous heights just for the rush it gave him.

He took some nasty spills too. I watched him disappear off the top of my tallest armoir after he jousted with a leaf on a tall plant, and heard him hit the ground – splat – only to pick himself up, shake the dizziness from his head, and dash toward the next adventure. I love these photos of him being adorable one moment, dangerous the next.

He was wiry like a cheetah and just as strong. And announced himself as the alpha of the house the moment he dashed in the door, much to the consternation of the much-older (and thankfully circumspect) Claude. His mother, Lena, whom I adopted at the same time, taught him tough love by giving him rabbit kicks to the head when he tried to nurse; she also let him cuddle as long as he didn’t crowd her.

He swatted at stranger’s dogs, and even at strangers, was a picky eater and in many other respects a maddening cat. But he also became my baby. The flip side to the alpha rascal was that when he wasn’t tearing up the house, he was demanding cuddles. So many emails had to be rewritten when he leapt onto the desk and tiptoed across the keyboard so he could get at my lap, where he would sit, purring for hours.

For 12 years, I adored him. I thought that a cat so athletic and full of joie de vivre would live to be 20. It was not to be.

Two years ago he was diagnosed with inflammatory bowel syndrome, which caused him to lose weight and have intestinal issues. We were dealing with it, though it was scary at times. A week ago yesterday he began to spiral downward. An x-ray found fluid in his abdomen, which meant either cancer or peritonitis. And during the course of the week I watched my rambunctious boy become a shadow – one with wide eyes that spoke of both pain and withdrawal. I spent as much time with him as I could, scooping his weak and skeletal frame up and onto my lap, where I cradled him in a blanket and kissed him while he purred. As long as he purred, I could convince myself that he’d recover and we have more years together. “Remember,” I whispered, “it’s only been 12 and you owe me 20!”

And then the purring stopped on Thanksgiving evening. When I scooped him up to cuddle with me in my chair, he weakly tried to get away. I tearfully let him down, and he wandered off on wobbly legs to sit in the dark closet. Nothing I could do would coax him out. Friday morning, when he refused all food, I made the call.

Dr. Sue, who does house call euthanasia, was kind and gentle as always. I held Iggy and cried like my heart would crack in two as he moved gently in arms, and then was still.

Some animal deaths I take better than others. This one was beyond devastating, partly due to the suddenness of it and also the maddening lack of a definite reason for his rapid decline. I was angry, I wanted answers. His vet is lucky they were closed for the holiday weekend.

And so am I. At this point I’ve had at least a little time to try to put Iggy’s passing into perspective and sorrow and reflection have replaced anger. If there was something to learn, I think it might be that animal relationships are sometimes like human ones. Not all of them are meant to last forever – or even for very long. And sometimes the ones that burn the brightest and hottest are abbreviated. That doesn’t make them any less profound.

Saint Francis, thanks for cushioning the pain with the reminder that I might not have gotten the 20 years of love and happy times I was hoping for, but these 12 were beautiful just the same.

Sorry again for the long delayed installment of this blog. As often happens, I’m too busy walking the walk to talk the talk.  😉

First the good news: the darling kittens of the previous post found a home – a really wonderful one. Just when I was ready to give up hope, hope tells me to take a chill pill and have patience because the universe has my back. And so it does, one more time. I shipped off Lizzie and Emma to empty nesters who are deliriously happy with their rowdy new adoptees, which gave me back my spare bedroom. At least momentarily.

The bad news is that I came back from vacation to FOUR different rescue situations needing attention. No kittens this time, but no fewer than eight adult cats who were found wandering, unclaimed and uncared-for. Six of the eight (four in one place, two in another) had been turned out and abandoned when their owners left. As if not heartbreaking enough, one situation was a woman who was taken away by the county when her dementia left her unable to care for herself, leaving her four cats to fend for themselves. <insert expletives here about people and agencies lacking in basic human and feline decency.>

Situation #3 was a young male who popped up begging at someone’s door, and situation #4 was right across the street from me: a scraggly older cat who showed up in a feeding spot. Because a kitten had been plucked from this same area while I was gone, I thought the smart thing to do would be grab this cat first in case it was the kitten’s very feral – and very fertile – mom. But as soon as I got this kitty into a dog crate in my garage, I could see I was way off on both counts.

His big blocky head told me he was a male. The name that came to me was Oscar. And all I had to do was look in Oscar’s eyes to tell he was not a feral, but yet another adult cat who was either abandoned by his owners or wandered too far and got lost. And judging by the look of him, he’s been out on his own for some time. Skinny, bony, and with patchy, unhealthy fur, this kitty is clearly a survivor. But rather than retreat into mistrust after his difficult life, Oscar is a bright spirit, with wide-open, hopeful eyes, and a ready purr. So ready that he in fact purred through his veterinary examination, during which he was pronounced maybe 15 years old (!), dehydrated and perhaps thyroid deficient, and put on heavy-duty antibiotics for his diarrhea. He is a leaky jalopy of a cat, but ready to be loved to renewal.

It’s impossible to do this work and not be acutely reminded of how connected we are to animals, and to everything. The critters who have always touched me the deepest are those who have been abandoned, knocked around and yet are still open to love. Do I see myself in them? I guess I do. Yes, it’s been (cough cough) a decade since I had a romantic involvement, but I do feel loved by family and friends. Still, is there any unattached person of a mature age who doesn’t want someone to look in their crows-nest-encircled eyes, see the beauty and promise, and give us at least a metaphorical home?

I see myself as strong and independent, but I guess I’m no different.

A week ago I put out the word about Oscar, asking if anyone recognizes him as their missing cat, but I’ve heard nothing. And just as things were looking bleak for his future and I feared having to return him to the field once his antibiotics were done because I have zero space for an aging kitty, his wonderful veterinarian has said she would take Oscar if no one claimed him. She saw it, too: the kindness and hope in his eyes. And once you see that, if you’re any kind of human being, you can’t turn away.

I’ve had all kinds of kittens over the years, some of whom were instantly fall-in-loveable, others who made me wonder if they would ever find a home. There were a few that should not have been alive after coming down with incurable diseases, others who were so terrified of humans that I had to corral them in a dog crate to meet potential adopters, knowing they would otherwise climb up inside the mattress of the guest room and disappear.

They all found homes. Really good ones.

And for two months I’ve had two of the sweetest, bravest, most beguiling sisters (now around 4 months old) and despite all my best efforts, I have not been able to find them a home! What was their “problem?” Emma and Lizzie are black. Gorgeous, fluffy, outgoing ebony babies.

It never even occurred to me that this could be the reason until a fellow rescuer noted that it always took her much longer to adopt out black kittens. A quick online search revealed this is true across the board: black kittens sometimes languish in shelters much longer than their orange, tabby or tuxedo friends. And why? There seems to be no scientific evidence, unless it’s perhaps that people still think black kitties are a little spooky, a little witchy? I only know that I find them bewitching.

And so I wait, trying to be confident that someone will want to cherish them… and hopefully before my festival starts in three weeks. 😉 But I’d settle for anytime as long as it’s a good home and they can be together.

I’ve been thinking about other examples of times when closing our minds trips us up in regards to our feline friends. I can’t say how many times people have been talking to me about this or that adult cat who was living the feral life, “so of course was not adoptable.” I then become this irritating evangelist, challenging them to open their minds, and pointing out that even adult ferals can be domesticated! And then I have to tell the tale of Big Mike, who was already 3 when he showed up badly wounded and I took him home and got him healed. He took to indoor living immediately, but was still pretty scared of humans, though he tolerated me.

It took a year of patient affections and giving him space, but now I can’t get him off my lap! The only reminders that he used to be a feral are his ears, tattered by fights long ago.

Or take Pokey, who was alpha guy of the parking lot when I trapped and brought him home six years ago when he was already around 7 years old! He was crippled from having been hit by a car in his youth, and sick with chronic upper respiratory issues and FIV. He also barely tolerated my touch. And yet, less than a year later and with health stabilized, he became my living, breathing teddy bear – the cat that sleeps with me and is such a good snuggler!

I think sometimes inexperience is our friend, as it was when I innocently just assumed Pokey would become a lap cat. Years later, people can’t believe he actually did.

So come on, folks. Give these sweet black kittens a chance. They are going stir-crazy in my spare bedroom and need someone to love them 24/7, as I’m unable to do. Saint Francis, I could use your help in bringing the perfect home into view. Until then I’m keeping my mind open.