You may recall my grief.
On April 7, 2018, my cat Loki died. On March 22, 2019, my cat Muldoon died.
For nearly 16 months, I have lived in this house without a cat. Before that, in the forty years from 1978 to 2018, there had been only a year and a half during which I had been catless.
My period of mourning has ended. No more dark suits.
Why now? Because a friend, living in Winthrop up in the Cascade mountains, knows a woman who provides foster care for cats, caring for them until they can be adopted. At present, she is caring for a mother cat with three new-born kittens. Last Friday, my friend sent me a photo of the mother and kittens, and a video of one of the kittens soon after its birth.
I acted hesitant. I hemmed and hawed. I said, "Maybe." But it was already too late. My heart was pounding. I knew I had to have them. Two of them.
The kittens will stay with their mom until they are weaned and have had appropriate shots and, I understand, until after they've been neutered. Until the beginning of September. We will then meet somewhere half way between our cities -- masked and maintaining six-foot distancing so far as possible -- where the change of custody will occur.
I'll have to once more drape my furniture with dingy covers, impervious to cat's claws. I'll have to stock up with kitty litter and food. I'll have to make sure the litter trays are still in good shape. But I'd be fooling no one if I said I dread all that work. A house without cats may be a house; it is not a home.
I've found that the way a person feels about cats -- and the way they feel about him or her in return -- is usually an excellent gauge by which to measure a person's character.
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