“What do you make of that?” Jerry asked me, pointing toward our backyard.
I glanced out the window in the direction Jerry pointed. Mama Cat, a black feral cat, stretched out against our block wall.
“Do you think she’s sleeping?” Jerry asked, hoping for the best.
Several weeks ago, the feral black cat had given birth to kittens in our bougainvillea bush. Jerry found them when we returned from our vacation. Our absence must have made Mama Cat consider our bougainvillea bush a peaceful spot for the raising of her babies. When Jerry discovered the kittens, they were too young to be taken from their mother. We decided to leave them right where they were until we had a plan of what to do for the kittens when they were able to leave Mama.
The following day, we checked in on the kittens. They were gone. No Mama Cat. No babies. Our next-door neighbors had returned from their vacation with their dog Barkley. It appeared Mama didn’t think our bougainvillea bush the best place for a quiet nursery after all.
“It doesn’t look good,” I said to Jerry in response to his question.
Jerry opened our back door, and Mama Cat didn’t move.
“Someone poisoned her,” Jerry said when he came back inside. The physical evidence of what the cat endured for her last moments on earth gave us no doubt.
A black cat dead in our backyard on Halloween Day. Jerry and I didn’t know if Mama Cat lost her life due to being a black feline at Halloween or if someone thought she was a nuisance and decided to rid the world of her. Both Jerry and I felt sad for the loss of this cat’s life.
“Where are the kittens?” Jerry wondered aloud.
We had no idea and for the next several days we kept checking the bougainvillea bush to see if the kittens returned in search of their mother.
We later learned from one of our neighbors that two of the kittens had been found alive inside a planter. The neighbor took the two kittens to a no-kill shelter.
“I saw four kittens,” Jerry said. “Where are the others?” Jerry continued to check the bougainvillea bush to see if the other two kittens would return. I gave up after three days of looking.
But Jerry didn’t give up. He continued to keep a look-out. When he heard a squeaking sound coming from our backyard, Jerry called me. He suspected a kitten had returned. It was growing dark and I grabbed a flash light.

The kitten belted out a loud mew, running back and forth on the very spot where Mama Cat had died. When the kitten saw us, she ducked into the bushes. Jerry decided to lure her with cat food, and the kitten couldn’t resist. When she ran out to chow down, Jerry picked her up and brought her inside to eat in safety.

No bigger than a stick of butter, the kitten needed more than cat food. She had a bloodied tail with her fur ripped off as if a large bird tried to capture her but couldn’t fly off with her.
We gave her love and bottle fed her with kitten formula. She purred and pawed and loved being with us. We had to separate her from our two older cats who didn’t like the idea of a little black kitten intruding on their turf.
It didn’t take more than five seconds for Jerry or me to realize we adored her. She would be moving in with us, increasing our household cat population to three. Friends and family suggested names for the new arrival. Stella. Whitney. Boo. I decided on Little Britches, after a character in one of Jerry’s favorite childhood books. “Britt” for short.
Britt ate and grew and purred and did her best to make friends with our two older snooty cats. She would touch noses with them and they would peer at her haughtily and then “Hissssss.”

Britt relaxing with me.

Now, the size of a loaf of bread, Britt jumps and hops and bounces and zooms around the house like a tornado. The Christmas tree destruction didn’t take more than a second. That was a given.
Soon she could fly through the air with amazing ability. Like a trapeze artist without the trapeze, she flew through the air and plopped on the dining room table or our dinner plates. She decided she didn’t care for coffee after sticking her head into Jerry’s cup.
She discovered play-biting on arms and hands brings her much joy. We bought catnip toys with the idea she might bite them instead. She loves to snuggle, suck on a blanket, and knead with much fervor.
Last week she had her first visit to the veterinarian and unlike most cats who hate going to the vet, Britt thought the excursion a new adventure. She never cried once during the car ride and she loved exploring the vet’s tiny office.

This is Britt’s “I’m-so-cute-it-hurts” pose.

Dr. Woods, our very nice vet, explained a feral kitten could possibly have feline leukemia and suggested she test for that. She also explained if Britt had the disease, there would be nothing we could do for her. We consented to the test and then waited an agonizing 20 minutes for the result. When the vet’s technician announced the test as “negative,” I did a hootchie-cootchie celebratory dance in the vet’s lobby. We would have had no option but to put her to sleep if the test had come out positive.
Our two older cats have reluctantly accepted Britt’s intrusion into their lives. They tolerate her exuberance as long as she stays far from them.
Whenever we hear clack, clack, boom, boom in another room –we know it’s Britt knocking things over, batting the cords to the blinds or maybe swinging from the blinds. Britt is having the time of her life. And we are too…kind of.

Oh no! A kitten in the house!

“A kitten is the delight of a household. All day long a comedy is played out by an incomparable actor.”
― Champfleury, The Cat Past and Present her life.

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