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?”

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.