Cavalcade of Cats : Lucy

Lucy

Guardian of the sink,
drip-watcher,
spunk under her feather-duster tail,
too shy to ask for love,
still, you must ask her.

Lucy
June 2008

This post commemorates the first birthday of my rescued kittens.
Their story can be found here.

Cavalcade of Cats : Olivia

Olivia

The princess,
sleeps on a feather bed,
leaving the warm spot I crawl under each night.

Olivia
June 2008

This post commemorates the first birthday of my rescued kittens.
Their story can be found here.

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Cavalcade of Cats : Alex

Alex

My shadow,
never more than arm’s length away,
long and lean,
without a voice,
says everything with his touch.

Alex
June 2008

This post commemorates the first birthday of my rescued kittens.
Their story can be found here.

Cavalcade of Cats : Max

Max

The leader,
powerful and physically strong,
scales walls and leaps great distances,
to stand atop open doors,
his weighty tail thrown sideways,
and checks me several times in the night,
gentle paw to my chin,
rough tongue in the darkness, cleaning.

Max
June 2008

This post commemorates the first birthday of my rescued kittens.
Their story can be found here.

Yin and Yang and Yowling

I’ve come to expect in everything, balance.
Spring rains that dissolve the crumbled earth of an autumn that was far too dry.
Abundant young from just 2 single birds that ensures their parents’ replacement.
And even, the night of rest that will follow sleeplessness, or, in this case, the reverse.

A cat yowled in the night beneath my window.
And, more than the interruption of my sleep by its crying, was the intrusion of tangled thoughts that followed until dawn.
What does one do with that cat?

Lily on upstairs porch

Lily came to us 2 years ago, a small, young cat, slinking from under the garage doors one spring, as we stood in the driveway talking with friends. Starved of attention and food, within minutes, she charmed us into loving her for life. By the time she was spayed and settled into our room upstairs, Lily had already crossed paths with a male--his kittens, not to be in her future.

Kittens beneath barn floor

The next spring brought yet another young cat.
This time, to our barn, and this time already with 5 tiny kittens that soon became motherless and were raised… in our room upstairs.
Now, four, Max, Alex, Olivia, and Lucy have become ours, all spayed or neutered and content to join Lily as indoor cats.

Upsetting, it must have been, in the quiet of a dark night, to the five cats roused from their peaceful sleeping amidst the human lumps beneath the bedcovers, to hear this stranger’s yowling outside.
But not half as unsettling as it was to the lump beneath them, who wonders, “What does one do with that cat?”

Cat-astrophe

Anyone who has had children or pets knows that the simple truth of travel, “If some illness will come upon you, you will be miles from your family doctor,” also may be expressed in its holiday form. After all, what completes a long-awaited celebration and houseful of breakfast guests more perfectly than a series of frantic phone calls to an emergency service and a visit to a 24-hour pharmacy?

I had stumbled downstairs in the darkness of an early winter morning, briefly stopping to lay out food for the cats, upstairs, before quietly emerging to start the holiday breakfast. The five furry bodies in our bedroom, nothing more than five dark blotches against a light rug, swarming around their kibble in the pre-dawn light.
I had touched each for a moment, tousled their hair, and left.

Only after breakfast, and in daylight, did I return to check them more properly before beginning the rest of my day. And found Lily, apart from the others, her face tilted down, and away.
As she tentatively turned to look up at me, I saw only one eye, golden and round, as it should be--the other, barely there, peeking from deep within its socket, while plump folds of pink filled most of the rounded space. She fussed and fussed at it with one paw, rubbing the soft pink, unable to see beyond the puffiness--
and hissed
and yowled.

“How quickly can you get her here,” came the welcome response from my third attempt to connect with something other than a recorded holiday message. And, minutes later, cat box in tow, we arrived on the doorstep of an animal hospital, the vet inside just finishing rounds before closing early for the afternoon.

She flushed it and peeked into the pink—to discover what appeared to be an uninjured eyeball, hiding behind an allergic response of Lily’s third eyelid, the angry membrane badly swollen from her repeated rubbing and fussing.
With orders for steroids and instructions for several days’ eyedrops, we headed home.

On this balmy December day, Lily sits in her favorite spot on the front porch, eyes already much brighter.
Focused on the world below.
She glances sideways at me as I sit watching her heal, two round golden eyes very thankful—
of the miracles of modern medicine
and those who practice it with passion.

Lily on front porch, looking down

Lily

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Footprints

This entry is an update to a ongoing story recorded here.

Perhaps we were seeing a bit of our future, that Sunday afternoon in June, working in the cool, dimly lit interior of the big, old barn. For, our first inkling of another’s presence with us, was discovering tiny footprints captured in one of the small, square slabs of concrete, hand-mixed and left to cure, undisturbed, on the dirt floor.
Preserved in stone.

The footprints, alone, meant nothing. Raccoons, opossums, even woodchucks wandered through its drafty, dark spaces regularly. And skunks often scented the summer nights’ air. But these were different—of a small, young animal’s tentative first steps, alone.

In the days that followed, we caught only shadowy glimpses of the five young kittens hidden beneath the old wooden floor boards where Mama left them to sleep as she wandered the nearby fields for what little she could find.
How she had come to be here, tattered and worn, we could only imagine.
But clearly, of her fading strength, to her young she had given all.
Mama’s kittens became ours that Thursday.
Country roads are not gentle, nor patient with those who linger at the edge.
And so our life with kittens began.

Max, bold and black.
Alexander, kind and gray.
Olivia, tender and disheveled.
Lucy, shy and lovely.
George, spirited and wearing stripes. (adopted)

Max

Alexander

Olivia

Lucy

In several days, we will pass the 6-month mark.
And, of the original five, four kittens remain.

Large, magnificent animals now, with long ruffs and fur-covered toes,
heavy coats and loving spirits,
like none I have ever known.

They live upstairs now, in the house, with us, and Lily, who arrived a year earlier. Together, they race, feather-duster tails held high, the length of our long hallways.
And tumble in a ball of fur, somersaulting across the floor.

Each morning, I’m woken by loving licks of 4 warm, raspy tongues.
Each night, tucked in securely beneath 4 heavy bodies, purring.

Max

Alexander

Olivia

Lucy

Outside the back door, is a small square of concrete, inscribed with several small footprints that catch and hold the morning light.
Footprints that look as though the one who left them was just passing through.
Though those that know the story,
know better.


Safe, at home, they are.
Here.

See more Camera Critters here.

Kitten talk

What young animals lack in their ability to care for themselves, nature has made up for in their essence—a need for warmth and contact, a curiosity that overcomes fear.
A loving and accepting spirit that extends beyond their kind—to draw others to them.

In their frailty, is their strength.

The barn kittens are thriving.
Five emerging personalities—all dear.
Playful and sure-footed, prancing with tails held high or tentatively reaching with one paw, exploring new worlds.
Tumbling, one over another in a rolling pile of fur.
Then, nodding into a lazy slumber.

Their gentle whispers in my ear, I understand.

The kittens will be with me for 3 more weeks--by then, I hope to have caring homes chosen for them.

The sounds around us

I miss the sounds of the outdoors.
Ninety-degree days and still, sticky evenings have forced us to close up the windows and turn on the air--not so much for the cooling, but the relief from humidity.
Beyond the glass, the sky hums with cicada song.

I’ve set up a nursery for the orphaned kittens in our bathroom. It’s a small space, easy to clean, and relatively quiet.
Their window I’ve left open—one remaining tie to their previous lives in the barn. They sleep beneath it, a pile of heads and tails with the nighttime sounds—familiarity in their changed world.
Already, they’ve become less frightened of me. They crawl and climb over my legs, tumbling and wrestling, chasing each other’s tails. And, even at this young age, their ravenous appetites empty plate after plate of food. I wash their faces and stroke their full bellies, clean their ears and behinds--like mama would.
But, try as I might, their mother I am not.

I watched her, Wednesday, return to the barn, and call them from beneath the lumber pile. Their immediate response to her barely perceptible voice, the perfect display of joy.
Dancing up to her, nuzzling close—she was their only need.

Twice since she’s been gone, I’ve seen it again—when a kitten accidentally begins to purr.
A barely perceptible sound that draws the others close.
And leaves them standing, looking lost, unable to find her.

It must be what they remember of her closeness.
A sound that meant she was near.
But, now, just seems confusing.

Shelter

For two days the storms have rolled past. With thunder and lightning and the threats of worse.
Tornadoes.
For now, all is still--that eerie stillness that forebodes yet another wave on the western horizon. We watch and wait, ready.

There’s a pile of cast off lumber stacked upon the uneven floorboards in the barn. And a small room with a dirt floor, once used for tack, where bricks and concrete blocks fill the edge spaces now, stacked almost to the rafters.

It is morning, yet the interior of the barn is dark. The sound of another hard rain on the metal roof muffles small steps. Scattered windows on the north side let in just enough morning light to silhouette a cowering ghost of a form.

Her low, throaty moan warns, “Not too close, for I do not yet know you.”

Squatting on the wooden step, I wait.
Sitting motionless in the darkness.

To the protection of this quiet corner, she has brought her kittens. Scarcely more than a kitten herself, seeking the shelter of a welcoming barn.

She calls to them softly—and 5 small spots emerge from beneath the boards. Then, just beyond the tip of my shoe, lies down, so they may feed.
I don’t know whether it is trust or sheer exhaustion that allows her to remain close. For when I slowly extend a hand for her to sniff, she nudges against it eagerly.

I gently stroke her back.
And, beneath my hand, feel what her eyes attempt to tell.

She has no home.
But has found shelter in the old barn.




Update: Mama kitty didn't come back to feed last night or this morning.
On my way to work, I found she'd been hit on the road.
She would've been a nice companion for our Lily.
I hope I raise her kittens well.

Last year at this time, Lily arrived, also seeking shelter.
She has become our happy porch cat.

Thanks to Wigger's World for hosting Skywatch Friday each week at his site!