Not long ago I lost two of the dearest loves of my life. Chloe and Esau. They were my baby cats.
Esau, a Maine coon, was our firstborn. John and I got him right after we were married. He was a social cat, craving attention. Whenever we traveled, or were gone for many hours, he’d get sick. So, at the age of four, we adopted him a sister: Chloe.
Chloe was a feisty tuxedo. Her full name was Chloe Squeaky Purrbody. You could have long conversations with that cat.
Those cats were in my face 24/7. I could not even shower alone. Esau loved being steamed and Chloe loved being with him. Their lives and mine were so entwined.
Chloe passed away about a week before Christmas this year. She was only 12.
Esau joined her in February. He was 17.
Grief hit me in ways I never imagined.
When we moved into our new home, my husband decided it was time for a kitten.
I hedged, claiming we should wait until we were unpacked and organized. I wasn’t sure if I could do it again. I’d loved so deeply and lost so hard, I wanted to just keep the pets we had and get on with life.
Last nigh,t my friend who was my neighbor at the KOA, texted me saying she trapped two tiny, starving kittens under her rig. Two. Not one. I knew deep down they needed to be together. I asked if I could go see them.
Seeing how scared and traumatized they were, I could not walk away. Someone needed to love them. That person being me. I brought them home.
I’ve only adopted shelter cats. They are already socialized and up to date on shots etc. Wild
kittens are out of my experience.
Pushing through the front door, I shielded them from Psycho Dog and put the carrier in our bedroom. John, curious, pulled the cardboard box out. The tiniest kitten erupted out of the box and shot across the room to hide under the bed table. John crawled on the floor, trying to grab the kitten. We tore our bedroom apart trying to capture that little black ball of fur.
Finally he grabbed it, but like a wet bar of soap it shot out of his hand, into the air, and skidded under another piece of furniture.
My gut clenched. What was I getting into? How in the world could these hellions become snuggle pusses?
When John got a hold of the kitten, it screamed and hissed and squealed as if its limbs were being torn off.
Great. Can’t even touch the things! I doubted my decision to bring them home.
Today I took them to the vet. Found out the fluffy one is a boy and the teeny one is the girl. She only weighs one pound. Vet figures they are about 5 weeks old and healthy.
In the office, I learned how to grab them by the scruff. When I did that, it was like someone hit an off switch. Each kitten went from hissing to flaccid. I was then able to hold each one. And when I did… they melted against me. I even got each one to purr!
It’s going to be a long road to gain their trust and to make them feel safe, but I know it will be worth it.
I said I’d never have three cats again.
Time to make room in the litter box!