A day in the life of a foster home for shelter cats is quite possibly the most humorous experience I’ve ever had. With a current count of nine cats, ranging in age from a four month old kitten to an eight year old geriatric, the fun never seems to stop.
In the morning the cats will let their foster mom know its breakfast time. There’s no need for an alarm clock in this house. The cats sit around my bed and howl until I wake.
“Mreeow. Mreeow!” they call until I roll out of bed and measure out their food. For five minutes I have to fight with the youngest kitten, forcing her away from the bowls of everyone else and back to her own. The other eight occasionally have to be nudged back to their own bowl but they’ve begun to understand. After fifteen minutes, breakfast is over, and uneaten portions are put back in storage to be used in the evening.
Cat chores go about as normal, with furry beasts always underfoot, trying to trip me or just be annoying. Ten cat boxes are scooped and given fresh litter well the four youngest hairballs bring me their toys to throw for games. Bells inside their favorite balls jingle as they tear down the hall from the cat room, feet thumping against the wood floor in chase and then back for another toss. When they tire of the toys, they all find a place to sleep, curling up on one of the beds, on shelves, or hidden in one of the boxes scattered through the house for their enjoyment. The youngest kitten chooses my chest to sleep, her rumbling purrs vibrating through me. Her favorite playmate is by my side, her long gray fur soft around my fingers. Her purr is softer, only noticeable by touching her chest. I barely move until they wake, not wanting to disturb the serene grace of their sleeping forms.
When the cats wake, play resumes, although less boisterous. They now bat at old shoelaces hanging from doorknobs or scratch at their cat tree. Their claws tear at the carpeted structure, tearing at the fiber. I have to pick bits of carpet from between their claws when they finish. They each stop by bowls of water for a drink, batting at one another if someone else tries to get their head in the same bowl.
When it’s time for dinner, they anxiously gather around my ankles. I make the family dinner first and this night I was making tuna casserole. The cats all know what it means when they hear the can opening. Three of them begin to cry, their loud meows echoing in the kitchen. I drain the water from the tuna into a bowl and set it on the floor for them to fight over. Everyone eventually gets some and they scatter until I call them for their own cat food dinner, another fifteen minutes of trying to teach the new kitten to stay away from the other bowls and watching the others to make sure they remember to keep to their own.
At night, as the family prepares for bed, the cats begin to divide themselves again to their sleeping spots or their night games. The oldest have their own beds and happily go to sleep in them, conserving their energy for another day. The youngest cats continue to romp late into the night, their thundering runs through the house keeping me awake. The rest jump into my bed and form a giant fur pile at the foot, grooming each other before they settle into sleep. When the kittens settle down, they jump on to the bed, scattering the others who find chairs and boxes to sleep in around the room instead. I fall asleep surrounding by furry pests and with cat hair in my nose but happy to have had another fulfilling day with my hairy friends.
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