As the year 2016 dawned, I dragged myself through life, finding much less joy each day than I ever had. In fact, I was becoming clinically depressed. I was steeped in grief from an unexpected diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis, had to give up my job as an attorney because I couldn’t deal with the pain, and this still in the middle of not-recovering from a divorce. I’d left the Pennsylvania community where I’d lived for 25 years and moved to North Carolina. At loose ends, I truly didn’t know how I’d end up living. Or if I would.
I logged into social media in Asheville, and almost immediately came across a group called the Asheville Cat Weirdos. My first thought was, wow, I love cats, but that’s a bit extreme, right? Exploring a little more, I found there was a huge cat rescue community in the county, and they were looking for folk to become foster parents to their kitties.
Foster parent to cats? I never heard of such a thing.
But I had the room, and the love of cats. So I volunteered. I took in sick cats like Pandora, a Siamese with a cold who needed to be out of the shelter for a few weeks. Chica was overweight and sad about the small can of Fancy Feast that was all she was allowed each day, but she lost her three pounds. There was Siamese kitty Checkers, and his yellow kitten brother Nixon who I never saw come out from behind the dresser the whole time they stayed with me, but their food was gone every morning. Rough-haired, scared black Callie, who lived behind the stove for weeks, gradually came out in the evenings to sit with us from afar. Dozens of sweet and sometimes spicy babies came through our foster room, staying a couple days, or a few months, whatever amount of love and care they needed.
And kittens. Oh, my word, the kittens. Litter after litter through the first two summers. Each group had their personalities and their antics, and I found myself laughing every once in a while. Sitting or sleeping with a whole group of little fuzzballs has a way of getting through to even the most protected and walled-in heart. I just wanted to cheer for every one that made it to the magic eight-week mark, when they could get spayed or neutered and then could go on to adoptive homes, well-broken in and friendly since they’d been fostered.
Sadly, not all of them did make it. Fading kitten syndrome is tragic and often fatal. So many kittens are born, and some just don’t have the strength to go on. Those that were, though, needed loving touch, bottle feeding, perhaps, constant heat for support, and each action I could provide for these babies reflected that warmth and love back to me as well.
Some of them also did not make it to adoption. They became so important and attached to my heart and soul I couldn’t bear to let them go.
Tiny Zigzag, a laid-back tuxedo with a white lightning bolt across her face. Sisters Reba, a fat, sassy tortoiseshell with all the grace of a St. Bernard puppy, and Clarice, another tuxedo, so introverted, with a small, peeping meow. They went to the adoption floor several times, but they were bonded and the only one who provoked interest was Reba. I had to keep them together. So here they stayed
In one batch of kittens, there was beautiful fluffy Anna, who went immediately, then the tabbies Thing One and Thing Two. I was sure that I was in love with little panther Nolan, but he got snapped up as well. So Daisy Mae decided she was not going. She dug her way under my skin by loving to sit on my shoulder and purr into my ear, and became a permanent resident.
One of the agencies posted a small gray fuzzy. The shelter wanted to amputate her leg, since she’d broken it and it had healed without benefit of a vet. She walked just fine, and the rescue was looking for a foster-to-adopt to save her leg. Of course I raised my hand, and we gained sweet Terra, who runs and jumps along with everyone else, and most especially, will walk right over and smack you when she wants some pets.
The senior cat rescue put out a call for what seemed like a short-term foster for Charlie, a 15-year-old colony cat who’d been taken in because he had a respiratory infection. After his meds were done, though, he still had the respiratory issue. The first night he was here, he laid on my chest, solidly purring, looking into my eyes with such emotion I just knew he was thankful to be back inside at last out of the cold and wet. (It was clear from his manners that he’d been someone’s cat sometime.) Being in foster for more than six months helped him get his testing and treatment done, with donations from the local cat community, and he was able to find an adoptive home where they understood his ongoing issues and fell in love anyway.
That rescue also posted one night looking for someone to take in a 21-year-old tortie, whose human mom had been living in a car with her, but subsequently had to go into a home where she couldn’t take her pet. How sad! How could I not say yes? The poor thing came to me with her hair all slicked and oily, her ribs showing, and a cranky miaoooow when she thought it was time for a meal. My vet called her “decrepit,” and said there wasn’t much he could do for her. But Kittie Lou and I set our minds to showing him. She lived another two years, gained four pounds, and had many more hours sleeping in the sun. SO there. We both found the will to live on.
Providing the devotion and care all these babies needed gave me the “cattitude” of feeling powerful once again, and grateful that I had enough strength to give. They pulled me up from the pit where I’d been stuck for so long and provided the physical reminders of love and the drive to move forward. Without them, I know I would not have been able to negotiate my way out of sadness. But all the tails and whiskers and kisses and snuggles and toe beans brought me back to life.
Yes, Asheville and the world, I’m a proud Cat Weirdo at last!