Turtle 

My other inherited kitten was Turtle, son of my son’s rescued cat, Moses who, along with her sister Amos, had twin litters one bright summer day. (I think Jedd got extra Cats from the World because he had such a gift for naming them. Beautiful red-headed brothers Buster and Scruggs now live their best life with Tamara and Jeff.) Turtle was tortoiseshell colored, and while he was “Turtle” to the family when I called the veterinarian he became “My Cat Named Turtle”, just to make things clear. 

Turtle was the sweetest kitten. He lived inside and slept and purred on my pillow. He was mine, and I was his, until he took that “I was his” thing a little too far. One day, as I was reading, he was purring and nuzzling on the arm of my chair. Then suddenly, he spun around and sprayed me, right in the ear! It made me sad to let him outside, but I mean, really.  

Turt lived a long, cared-for, protected life outdoors with fencing, little houses with cooling and heating pads, and all the food he could eat, which was a LOT of food. He was hyperthyroid, and even on maximum meds, he ate and ate and ate. And, ate. Every breakfast and supper, he drilled a whole can of Fancy Feast smothered in cat gravy and served with a side of dry food. Bedtime found him lapping up a packet of kitty bisque sprinkled with kitty treats. I had so many Chewy deliveries that the FedEx guy and I started sharing friendly cat conversations. 

Just before Christmas, Turt didn’t want his breakfast, and I knew it was time. 

In January, Chewy’s automated system reminded me to place my cat food order. I told the automated system that Turtle had passed. There followed a sweet sympathy card from Chewy. Even though I realized that AI had sent that card (“if customer’s reply contains ‘deceased’, send card”), in a strangely sweet way, this touched me and I cried. Um, okay. AI made me cry. “It’s a new world, Mom.”  

Scout 

Scout was my first Cat from the World. That’s what the vet said when I told him I had no idea where the kitten came from: “He came from the world”. My granddaughter named him Scout. 

Here was a tiny red kitten with a big voice and rings around his tail who loved to chase a ball at the end of a fishing rod. One day he didn’t want to play; we found a recalcitrant ear infection. I said to the vet, “Do whatever it takes!” That last antibiotic warned that it might cause developmental issues in kittens, but my Executive Decision said, “Go for it!” Skittle-Scout recovered, but he kept an inquisitive little tilt to his head, and not all of his grown-up teeth came in. 

Scout was special. Not the brightest red-kitty-crayon in the box, he was still the sweetest, cutest, most frisky and fun-loving little cat I’ve ever known. He had more personality in his little claw than any other cat could claim.  

He left in July, way too soon, and on his own terms. I found him peacefully lying in the shade of my kayaks. It broke my heart. 

Blackie-Blue 

Blackie Blue (her fur’s so black it’s blue) came to my house all silky and sweet; I gave her some food and she stuck around with Turtle and Scout. She had already been spayed. Hmmm. Where does a cat come from, spayed but not feral? From The World, of course. 

Blackie is now an only cat, and she’s just fine with that. Scout got on her last nerve, always wanting to play. I think she’s an introvert like me. She’s a sweet little beast, but I sure do miss my personality-cats.  

The Kitten in the Garage 

With Turtle, Scout and Blackie-Blue, I was all catted-up. No more cats, thank you. Until I opened the inside door to my garage and saw a tiny gray kitten scurry under a shelf. How had it gotten in there? 

My garage is a closed system. Unless you’re a spider, the only way in is to open the door. I told my kids someone had put a kitten in my garage. They thought I was crazy, but I knew what I had seen. I’m pretty sure there ensued a sibling conversation about keeping a closer eye on mom. 

I saw the skitty-kitty again later. I did not tell the kids. 

I called “here kitty kitty”; nobody came. I put out food and water; it was consumed. It took a few days, but a live trap won the day. I made sure to document the event and sent the pics to the kids. 

In that trap was the tiniest, maddest, hissiest, spittingest, most beautiful dark gray long-haired kitten I had ever seen. That beautiful kitten was MAD! I named it Taz. 

I had told my friend Kristie about it and she just had to have that kitten. As soon as I trapped it, here she came with a carrier. It took both of us twenty minutes to move that terrified half-pound ball of hissy-spitty-fuzz from trap to carrier, but eventually, home they went. 

After weeks of gentle domestication, Taz became Jazz, and she is now a splendidly beautiful cat. There’s a little feral left in her; she is a loyal companion, but Kristie is her only person.