Sunday evening Don and I were at the kitchen table when a loud meowing sound halted our conversation. Outside, on the windowsill over the sink, two small kittens were making their presence known.
It's heartbreaking when people won't take responsibility for an animal and drop the problem on someone else's doorstep. There are certain practical considerations for us not having a cat, the biggest one being that Don is not fond of them.
I haven't had a cat for 26 years, though we've had four well loved dogs during that time, and up to this week, I had slipped into the mode of believing that I wasn't a cat person anymore. Funny how two and a half pounds of fluff can walk into your heart and change your mind about that. Actually, five pounds, two and a half each.
Their headquarters this week was a box on the front porch, and I joined them as often as I could. The volume of their happy purrs indicated that their batteries were fully charged. Twinkle would look me straight in the eyes and let me know she appreciated being cared for. Buffy loves Barley the dog and followed him everywhere, while Barley studiously tried to avoid any contact with the sweet thing. Barley thinks one dog is all any family needs. The vote was two to one against the kittens.
I put up flyers around town, and made myself a nuisance by asking everyone I met if they'd like a kitten or two, and there were no takers. Most everyone I asked either hated cats or already had two or three of them. We were running out of options.
Late this afternoon, Don ran into a friend who said his place could use a couple of cats. We just dropped the two off at a small farm they'll share with chickens and ducks and one big dog that protects small creatures. We're confident they'll become fast friends. They're sleeping tonight in a cozy enclosure and dreaming of eating grasshoppers and digging in the garden.
I love happy endings.
