Pets – Amy Arden

I believe that the world is comprised of cat people and non-cat people. I am a cat person. I have been for as long as I can remember. By age seven, I could have become a serious cat hoarder (kitten hoarder, specifically), had I had the autonomy to do so. My love for animals doesn’t apply exclusively to cats. It’s for frogs, salamanders, dogs, rabbits, horses, goldfish. Ducklings. Backyard chickens. I had a pet hermit crab at one point, and in high school, a guinea pig. 

But even if I shared a house with a cat or two, I never felt that was quite enough. There were many I couldn’t take home (or worse, had to give back) during my formative years. I’m not sure I’m quite over that. So this past winter, I signed up to be a foster caregiver through one of Pittsburgh’s amazing animal shelters, Humane Animal Rescue of Pittsburgh. A few months later, kitten season started.

Colin, Daphne, Benedict, and Eloise awaiting their next adventure.

When the opportunity to foster four kittens from the same litter arose, I took it. Perhaps this was retribution of sorts, a leveling out of all the no’s of my earlier life. (I imagined my 8-year-old self shaking her fists while declaring, “Oh, I can’t have one kitten? Fine, I’ll take home a litter. Try to stop me!)  Or perhaps, after having lost two beloved pets, Rosie in January and Hendrix in February, I was seeking a different kind of animal bond. Companionship with animals that were young and healthy, with their whole lives ahead of them. 

One warm April afternoon, I triumphantly bundled my new charges home. Inside, I showed them the space I’d set up, complete with litterbox, bed, bowls, toys. They quietly emerged from their carrier and began exploring. I sat and watched, amazed by their courage and curiosity. Even then, they showed glimpses of distinct personalities. Two came out right away, one a moment after. The last to appear took his time, but once he was out, he was fearless.

That’s when I found out exactly the amount of chaos I’d signed up for. It was equal parts cute and crazy. Yes, I had had cats and yes, I did have experience with raising kittens. I felt reasonably well-prepared.

But that was one kitten at a time. This was four kittens. All at once.

Three things became very clear very quickly.

1) Kittens are Messy

At just 5 weeks old, everyone was still getting accustomed to using a litterbox. And consequently, only mildly successful of burying their pee and poo. Often, it got stuck on their feet and found its way onto the floor, their bedding, their toys. I bought massive quantities of Lysol and cleaning wipes. I resigned myself to taking the cute fluffy bed I’d purchased out of rotation and using towels that could be more easily cleaned. As for the floor – well, lets just say I became intimately involved in its upkeep.

They weren’t much better with their food. At first, the kittens were so small they could actually walk through their feeding dishes and sometime get into the dishes themselves. Ever wondered what happens with a hungry little cat encounters an enticing pile of wet kitten food? It gets everywhere. Including on them.

2) Kittens are Needy

They are also loud. Most days began with the kittens hurling themselves en masse at my ankles while screaming like tiny ringwraiths. As they got older, they became adept at climbing my pants, or even my bathrobe. Their demands could be about food (mostly it was food), but sometimes it was play or attention they wanted.

The kittens also needed frequent weight checks to ensure they were healthy and growing appropriately. In fact, I took them to the post office for their first weight check because I didn’t own a scale small enough. (The clerk rolled with it, and I like to think the other customers found it entertaining.)

Don’t get me wrong: kittens are very fun to play with and care for. But my little dudes and dudettes had an average attention span of 1.8 seconds. Each toy would be played with in spurts of intense interest. Then they would be off to the next thing: chasing each other, wresting, playing with a different toy, climbing up to my shoulder. Repeat 20 times in 18 minutes.

Furthermore, retracting claws wasn’t a skill my brood had mastered yet. My legs looked like I’d rolled downhill through a blackberry patch, and my hands weren’t much better. However, the kittens were amazingly gentle with two kiddos who visited. It was if they sensed that they couldn’t interact with a toddler at the same intensity as an adult.

3) Kittens are Delightful

Literally, I watched the siblings change before my eyes and their personalities manifest. Colin, one of the tuxedos, was the first to climb into my lap and he remained one of the sweetest and most affectionate of the bunch with an irresistible purr. Eloise, the other tuxedo, had an incredible aptitude for speed (and escapes). Even though she was the smallest, she had no reservations whatsoever about attacking her larger siblings and looked adorable doing it. Benedict delighted in stealth attacks on the others and was the first to become really interested in toys – particularly those he could hunt. Daphne showed up fearless on day one and continued so for the duration of her visit. Boss lady energy was all over that girl.

Week by week they grew. Each of the kittens became stronger, faster, more independent. Seeing their rapid development was astonishing. My husband enjoyed them as well. We had multiple daily play sessions with the kittens and since Peter works mainly from home, sometimes he had one or more roaming around his office.

The only one who wasn’t happy was our resident cat, Abby. I wish I could have explained to her in a way that she could understand that these little ones were young and needed our help, and that they wouldn’t be living in the house permanently. (Although, admittedly, I secretly thought about having one or two stay.) She remained nonplussed. Calming treats, extra attention, special food, and a pheromone diffuser did not alter her view.

After three and a half weeks in my care, the kittens were big enough to find their forever homes. The morning I placed them back in their carrier was bittersweet. They were wonderful cats and deserved live with a permanent family. But it always hard to say goodbye to something precious.

I took my time driving to the shelter. The staff was kind enough to allow me to help set them up in their new space, and I felt comforted being able to stay with them a little longer. Then with a few final pets, I said goodbye.

I was sad, but not too sad. It was a gift to have them in my home for the time I did. It was a gift to see animals at the start of their lives instead of at its end. My heart was grateful that I would not witness their deaths, but instead feel I’d done something to help this rambunctious bunch grow and thrive. Who wouldn’t feel happiness at that?

And so the chapter closed on my first experience as a kitten foster. All was well.

Except for one thing: Abby is still upset.

P.S. All of the kittens were adopted within 2 days of their return to the shelter!

Pets come into our hearts, burrow in, and make warm and fluffy spaces for themselves. And when they are gone, the space where they used to be aches terribly.

Earlier this month I lost my beloved German Shepherd, Rosie. I first saw her as a puppy, a fuzzy, floppy-eared little creature who curiously trotted across the room and, after some sniffs and pets, allowed me to pick her up. I was immediately smitten. Cuteness in canine form has always been the death knell of my resolve. 

I’d lived with dogs before, and loved them, but Rosie was the first one I could call my own. She soon became not only a pet, but a presence. I loved watching her curl into a tiny ball for naps. She was adorable romping in snow. Eventually, she started learning to sit and play fetch. As she grew a little older, I took her to the local dog park. Rosie was shy at first, but soon gained enough size, speed, and confidence to join the other dogs in a frenzied circle of collective zoomies until they all collapsed in a panting heap. She made doggie friends, a Newfoundland of about the same age named Chewy, and neighborhood pups named Zoe and Sparky. Later, in Pittsburgh, she cougared it up with the much-younger Goliath, who lived next door, for rambunctious backyard playdates.

We went on adventures. Hikes, parks, city walks, doggie dips, visits to pup-friendly restaurants and businesses. As a breed with a certain reputation, some people drew away. But the majority of folks stopped, petted her, complimented her looks and good behavior. She was unfailingly patient and affectionate with kids and made fast friends in the under-five crowd. I heard many stories of smart, loyal, beloved German Shepherds during these spontaneous encounters. It seems that most people who experience a German Shepherd become superfans of the breed. I was no different.

I came to know her mannerisms and personality. The head tilt, as if she were contemplating her next move. Her masterful use of puppy dog eyes – usually deployed when she rolled onto her back and then stared you down for a belly rub. The lopsided way of sitting that she never really outgrew. And my favorite, which I dubbed “the exasperated sigh.” This behavior was pretty much the dog equivalent of a disgruntled teenager: Rosie would take a deep breath in, flop onto her bed, and exhale with an audible huff. It got me every time.

She could be very dramatic.

And Rosie needed to be close to her humans. She participated in holidays and vacations. One year she made a fantastic Batman for Halloween. When she turned 10, we had a birthday party for her – which included human and canine guests – at a pup-friendly brewery. She attended our wedding, where she insisted on sitting at Peter’s feet for the duration of the ceremony.

The heartbreaking thing, though, about living alongside a dog is that your timelines are different. You watch them get old. Your rationale mind knows that they are mortal. Your heart does not. You are never ready.

Rosie aged. Health issues arose. Contrary to a popular assumption about the breed, it was never her hips. She got allergies and developed food sensitivities. These conditions required multiple daily medications and a special diet, plus regular visits to a veterinary dermatologist. I applied topical treatments for her finicky skin. But with effort and medications, they could be managed. Later came periodic tummy issues and a propensity for ear infections; I’m sure she enjoyed her frequent ear cleanings as I much as I enjoyed giving them.

Was she hard to care for sometimes? Yes. Did I often wish it was less hard? Yes. Did I do it anyway? Yes.

Rosie was my constant. Through a move, a pandemic, a divorce, two layoffs. She kept me grounded. She kept me engaged with the world, much as I sometimes wanted to shut myself inside the house and bolt the doors.

The kicker was cancer. She had surgery to remove the tumors and then spent the next 10 days in a sort of dog onesie to keep her from licking the incision. Naturally, the onesie had to be removed and then replaced every time she needed a bathroom break. Sometimes this occurred in the predawn dark. After she was out of the onesie she started chemotherapy and ancillary medications. The treatment wouldn’t cure her. But it might buy us some time.

And it did, for awhile. For a few months, Rosie seemed normal-ish. But one week in the middle of January she became lethargic. She wasn’t much interested in food, toys, or walks. Her breathing sounded irregular, leading us to rush her to a 24-hour veterinary clinic one night. After some tests she was released with medications, and we scheduled a follow-up appointment with her primary vet.

For a few days, Rosie seemed a little better. But by the third day, as a winter storm blew in during the wee hours, her condition rapidly worsened. When morning came we carried her from the house and drove to the vet as soon as we could. We watched as she was carried into treatment on a gurney. We were at her side when, moments later, she slipped away.

Through the bone-chillingly cold days that followed, we grieved. Eventually the weather broke. On the first mild day after her death, we scattered her ashes in a stream alongside one of her favorite trails. She loved the water and had been happy there. In the winter twilight, the setting sun lit the clouds with glowing orange and pink light. It was gorgeous. It was peaceful.

As we walked back to the car, it occurred to me that the dead do not know what we do for them after they’ve departed. The ritual of laying to rest may, in reality, be only for the living. We alone can take comfort in this last act of love.

I carried the box that had contained her ashes in my hands. It felt lighter. And my heart felt a tiny bit lighter, too.

Basket of Adorables

In Memoriam