In dutiful, perfectionistic fashion, I resolved to do everything right this time.
This time, the babysitter wouldn’t have to take the kids outside for a “picnic,” which was code for the cat being so aggressive that the sitter felt unsafe inside.
This time, another sitter wouldn’t have to barricade herself in the bathroom until we came home, the cat yowling and prowling nearby.
This time, we wouldn’t need to be wary of inviting our niece for dinner, lest she be attacked in a terror of claws and hissing.
Two years earlier, Penny was a cute mackerel tabby who easily curled into my lap as my husband and son looked on with smiles. I was early into pregnancy with our second baby. We’d have two little boys and a sweet cat in our sunny home.
Her tenure is a story for another time. We deliberated for months before agreeing she needed a different home. We talked with several cat experts. We tried regimens of play toys and times. I’m from a family where pets were for life. But the stress of our three-kids-under-four household proved too much for Penny, and the aggression wasn’t tenable.
I was all blubbering tears. Denial. Deep conviction that if we let Penny go, we’d never, NEVER be pet owners again. Our preschooler simply assured us that Penny would enjoy a new home. How did he take it so easily? I did all I could to make sure she wouldn’t be euthanized, and we left her with the animal rescue society. The whole thing was terrible. I was gutted. I vowed never to face that situation again.
Years and a pandemic later, hope dared flicker. The audacity. My wish for a cat rose again — two this time, so they’d be friends. We read so much about cats’ needs for play and regulation. Caring for Penny taught us a lot. We wanted our kids to have pets. We were ready.
What I didn’t expect was the scathing rebuke delivered via Facebook Messenger. After submitting a detailed application weeks earlier, including a couple essays and financial information, I asked the privately run (and very thoughtfully chosen) pet adoption agency for an update on our request. What followed was an acidic rebuke. We failed Penny. We signed her death sentence. We could never be trusted with a pet again.
It was a no-kill shelter, I pleaded. I tried to explain all we had done for Penny, but it didn’t matter. The agency spouted what I feared: we were pet-owning failures to an unredeemable level. Scum.
I should add that this crushing rejection came during the Summer of Great Loss — when my brother-in-law died suddenly, just before we lost several members of our community. Feelings of confusion, anger, and injustice were high. It was a summer of pregnancy fatigue and nausea. A summer where depression dragged at us even as we told ourselves we were fine.
My bruised longing wouldn’t stay quiet. A cat. A cat would help balance the season’s deep sorrow. My brother once told me (sagely, as older brothers do) that you can’t be angry petting a cat. My childhood cats were bright salves to hard seasons. I saw how animals drew out our kids’ joy.
The County Shelter, it turns out, was more than happy to let us foster kittens. Come this week, they invited. “Would you be willing to take three?”
We readied a room for kittens. I readied the kids’ hearts. With four children now, six and below, I carefully, carefully, carefully explained that we’d have the kittens only a short time. Maybe a couple months. Our love would prepare them for their future home. Who knows? We might even foster another litter after this one. I couldn’t have a pet myself, but I sure could help someone else’s future cat avoid what happened to Penny.
One sweltering afternoon, our van wheels crunched the hot asphalt as my secondborn and I rolled up to the Shelter. The man led us down the row of cats. Which ones do you want? A nursing mother and her three kittens?
We collected Muffin (a solid gray mama cat) and her three kittens (all girls with nearly identical dilute calico coats) into a borrowed carrier and loaded the van with litter, toys, and canned food.
Those kittens! Oh, what fluffy balls of sweet joy. They immediately gifted us hours of gentle laughter and cuddles. My kids were tender, swept away by the sweetness and delight of the curious animals. We watched the kittens learn to balance, to run near when they heard a can open, to hide on beloved blankets and lope down the too-tall stairs.
Those kittens never left us.
Banana, with her broken chirrup of a meow, is my faithful reading buddy. Blueberry finds me first in the mornings, relentlessly circling until petted. Chocolate Chip has the smallest stature but, in my opinion, the biggest voice.
Our cats are impressively laid back and well-adjusted to our chaos. They’re often in cuddle piles together, or chasing paper balls, or prowling for flies that zip into the house. They flop, lope, lounge, and purr.
They’re wonderful — and I am constantly thankful for their peaceful presence. My brother was right. There’s something mysterious and marvelous about petting a cat.
Sure, I don’t love litter boxes or scratched furniture. But I’m amazed — every time! — by how deeply our pets can bring such welling affection. Have you felt it too?
Warmly,
Rachael
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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the March series, "Peace."
I’m delighted that your children are going to be able to grow up with cats; and that you adopted the family.
Rachael - first off let me just say, shame to that pet adoption agency! But I'm so glad that your family has such loving pets!