Gotcha Day: The Kittens I Was Only Supposed to Foster

Six years ago I drove to Ari’s for two flea-ridden, squinty-eyed kittens I meant to give back. Today is their gotcha day. You can probably guess how the “give back” part went.

Today is Finn and Callie‘s gotcha day; the actual anniversary, the exact date six years ago that I drove home with them. It happens to land on one of my regular posting days this year, which felt too good to pass up, so: happy gotcha day to two cats who cannot read. Let me tell you how they got here.

My friend Ari runs a trap-neuter-release colony, which is the tireless and mostly thankless work of humanely trapping feral cats, getting them fixed and vetted, and finding them homes. Ari had trapped a litter from a feral mama they’d named Mimi, called me, and asked if I could foster two of them. I said yes the way you always say yes to Ari, which is quickly, and without fully thinking it through.

They were maybe six weeks old, maybe eight; we never knew exactly. Barely weaned, squinty-eyed, and, I cannot stress this enough, absolutely crawling with fleas. So the first order of business was the flea bath, and the flea bath is where you find out what you’re made of. Picture two palm-sized kittens who have decided, unanimously and at full volume, that warm water and a little Dawn is a personal betrayal. Picture the flea comb, and the little cup of soapy water next to the sink going darker with every pass. Picture me, soaked to the elbows, saying “you’re okay, you’re okay” to a wet, furious kitten who very much was not okay. We did this more than once. By the end they were clean and fluffy and outraged, and I was soaking wet and completely in love, which is exactly how they get you.

I set them up in the little bathroom off the office in my townhome (this was all shortly before we found the Creek House), because that’s where you put fosters: a small room, easy to clean, easy to sit down on the floor and let two scared babies decide in their own time that your hand is not a threat.

It took about a day to learn the pecking order. Callie, the little torbie, was in charge, and I mean immediately. She was the size of my palm and she had already appointed herself management; I’d peek in and find her lying flat on top of her brother, hissing at my hand – a tiny furious loaf of bread, protecting Finn from a threat that was, in this case, dinner. She has never once stopped being the boss of this household. Six years later she runs it from the deck as the official Garden Manager, and Finn still lets her, because Finn has always let her.

Finn, meanwhile, had exactly one goal in life, and it was Phoebe. Phoebe was my older girl, the established resident, and she was not consulted about any of this. Finn thought she hung the moon. He followed her from room to room; he tried to nap near her, groom her, simply exist next to her, be chosen. And Phoebe? Phoebe was Concerned. Phoebe was always Concerned. She came factory-installed with a permanently worried face, and “Concerned Phoebe is Concerned” became a whole phrase around here. She watched these two kittens like they were a structural problem with the house. Finn adored her anyway; he’s an optimist, and it is his best and most exhausting quality.

You already know how this ends. I was supposed to get them healthy and socialized and adoptable, and then hand them off to a good home. Reader, I was the good home. Somewhere between the flea baths and the floor-sitting, I had quietly moved in with them. “Foster fail” is the affectionate term. I have never once considered it a failure.

So happy gotcha day, Finn and Callie. Six years of Callie running the place and Finn trying to make a friend, and I would not trade a single day of it. Thank you, Ari, for the phone call. I’ll keep the window seat open.

P.S. Callie read this over my shoulder and did not dispute a single word about being in charge.

P.P.S. For the record: Concerned Phoebe was always Concerned. About what? Everything. Always. It was her ministry.

P.P.P.S. If Ari’s kind of work is something you want to get behind, trap-neuter-release is where the real difference gets made; support the folks who do it. Ari’s own project is coming soon, and I’ll point you to it the second it’s live. In the meanwhile if you want to help TNR and feral rescue, consider Furkids.

P.P.P.P.S. Finn and Remy are, for the record, still cool. He wanted a friend for six years and eventually got one; it just took a dog.