Fostering comes to an end

I knew when I fostered a pregnant cat in July that it would be all over some day, and that day came this week. Finally there was room at the shelter, and at last the kittens were all healthy enough to go.  They purred when I put them in the carrier, and it broke my heart. It would have been easier if only they had hissed and spit.

I'm sorry little guys, I know you trusted me and thought it would last forever, but now is the beginning of the rest of your lives, and it's going to be a little rough at first. The first thing they do at the shelter is to make sure all animals are spayed and neutered, and your first day will be crummy.

It makes it a little easier to know that two will stay with me forever. I picked up Stitch and Tux last night, after their traumatic day at the shelter's vet clinic

Two have gone to the shelter, and on to their future lives. If you find Purrl and Floyd at this link, you'll see that nobody has claimed them yet. If not, then happily they have found their place in someone's arms. As I write this, they've been at Safe Haven for 24 hours. It's a no-kill shelter, so they're guaranteed a home.

Hester Prynne, their beautiful mama, was adopted immediately in September. Yesterday a shelter staff member told me what happened: A couple came in with a 12-year-old daughter; they walked past the cages and Hester reached her paw out through  the bars...of course the little girl stopped...and fell completely in love with her. It was a very good match...

Ah Hester Prynne, you are such a smart creature. Best of luck to Purrl and Floyd; may they be equally lucky.

Picking the kitten

Foster mama cat is at the shelter already, but the kittens are still with me, in a holding pattern, until there is space there. I was happy to be told I had a little more time with them. Up until the last few weeks I was quite stalwart in believing they would all go back, but as their personalities have developed...well...

Just as I wavered over whether to-keep-or-not-to-keep, the following poem showed up on NPR's Writer's Almanac, like some kind of divine intervention:

 

 Picking the Kitten

by Faith Shearin

 You had to hold it awhile in your hand.

It was important to look into the box

of blind fur and notice who needed you.

Not the one who chased its tail,

not the one who slept in a corner

with an air of indifference. There were

colors and markings to consider.

Which would you want to find

on your pillow? The one I took home

was warm as fever. I held her purr

in my pocket, her roughness on my

bedroom rug. I pour out this memory

the way I poured out her evening cream.

"Picking the Kitten" by Faith Shearin, from Moving the Piano. © Stephen F. Austin State University Press, 2011.

Dammit NPR!

Fostering

 

In less than two weeks I'll have to take them back, the foster kittens. 

They turned 6 weeks old on Tuesday and I had to put them in a crate and take them in for vaccinations. It was the first time I had to see them behind bars.

They went here for their shots and check-up, to the place that actually owns them, a no-kill shelter 20 miles away.

Aw, gee. They've been with me for a really important part of their lives, and perhaps of mine too. I know I'm gonna miss them.

I wonder what they'll remember, and how that works with animals.

Will they remember Hester Prynne, their good mama? I hope so, even if it's blurry.

On Thursday I must return Hester Prynne, who leaves me first. She will go to a vet to be neutered, and then she will be up for adoption. I will write her a fabulous resume, and she will find a great home.

My humiliation

 Eddy here! I haven't written for awhile, but I've gotta talk about what happened today. Here goes:

I walk into "the study" which I don't know why they call it that because sure as hell I've never seen anyone study in there. There's just a bunch of books and a computer and a futon (and why that would be in "a study" who knows? Is "studying" so exhausting you need a place to sleep?)

I myself never really sleep, but I lie down anyway, and Reub is right there, "sleeping," and muttering ever-so-subtly out of the side of his mouth: there's a cat in here.

 

Really? The foster kittens are usually banished to their own room. This is unusual.

I decide to investigate.  Reub continues to "sleep."

 

He's deeply in denial, and there's nothing I can do.

 

OMG.

Rueb is right. It's a kitten. In "the study."

 

I must get closer.

 

I must get really close.

Really really close.

Really really really reeeeeallllly close. Cripes, aren't I scary?

Scary!!!! Someone? Anyone? No?

The kitten fell asleep. My humiliation is complete. Sigh.

Outta the box

 At four weeks old the foster kittens have figured out how to get out of their nest box. The first to do it was the one I must stop referring to as "Fatball," a richly-deserved but unflattering name.

 Fatball never misses a meal, and also this week, he was the first to eat cat food. His excesses have in just 4 short weeks given him an extremely rotund figure. I also call him "Buzz" due to his deafening purr while eating. Well, who doesn't enjoy a good meal?

 Once Buzz was out, the others were quick to follow.

 Whoopee! The big world is so awesome. (Even if most of it has been covered with an ugly plastic tarp to protect the nice cork floor that lies beneath.)

 Buzz and Purrl having a blast around the scratching post that John made for them.

 Pretty Boy Floyd and Cricket join the fun as mama Hester Prynne wishes she were somewhere else.

 Purrl resembles a cat that John had when he was in college, and every time he looks at her he gets all misty.

 Buzz enjoys crossword puzzles.

 Purrl with Cricket, who gets her name from an ability to chirp like a cricket at age 2 weeks-- although she's since modified her meow to a more kitten-like sound. Cricket is already using the litter box, which is very cool of her.

 Floyd is a pretty boy, and looks a lot like his elegant mama.

 

 Who can resist Pretty Boy Floyd?

 The book shelf is so inviting.

Although when they finally get sleepy, a lap is even better.

In the middle

It's a nice calm place, at the end of a career and at the beginning of what's-next. Nowhere one must go, nothing one must do.

Just like summer vacation, right in the middle.

One of the kids has come back for a bit and although un-looked for, I'm loving it.

It was also a delight last week to have a visit from our oldest son and his family. Wow! He has a family now. He really does. A beautiful, tightly-knit little family, making me a mother-in-law and a grandmother.

But still a mom. I joked to John the other day: "I can't believe I'm 62 and still a MOTHER."

Seriously, what did I think back then when I first had children? At age 21 they would fly away forever, and I myself would revert to some former condition? Well, that's not how it works. Anybody knows this, except perhaps me, at age 40, preparing even then for the Great Separation.

 We had three amazing children who have become the kind of adults you would like to be around. If you were stuck in a spaceship with only a few companions, traveling through light years of time, any of these three would be welcome fellow-travelers, I promise. As a parent that was the goal: raise a fellow-traveler.

One-by-one, the travelers all come back to roost for a bit, and how cool is that?  Cluttered with books and animals, musical instruments, odd spices and artifacts, strange artistic tastes and an unattended yard, un-zen-like and anything but simple, the house can still be a refuge.

It's not really off topic to mention that the foster kittens, temporary guests who occupy a whole bedroom, are doing well.

As for me, I'm in a nice calm spot, the place in the middle of it all.