Think very carefully—then do it

I have two orange cats. Brothers. “Casey” and “Finnegan.”
I may have told you about them before; I can’t remember (I’ve turned 60 and I’ve given up trying to remember everything).
I love Casey and Finnegan. Well, mostly I love Casey and Finnegan, but some days maybe not so much as other ones.
These two brothers had a rough start. They were born in a dumpster near a truck stop. The young attendant was feeding the mother cat not aware she had kittens.
When the weather turned cold, she took the mother cat home but after a day realized the cat had been nursing kittens. A search of the area found three kittens.
The mother and those three kittens were adopted out and will live happily ever after undoubtedly. But Casey and Finnegan were left behind. They were nearly starving to death by the time someone noticed them and animal control picked them up.
They were sent to a veterinarian’s office and then to a foster home to see if they would make it. They did. They were only weeks old.
Long story short, they came to live with me.
They are now full-grown cats and like to sit at the window imagining the great outdoors and what adventures they might have on the other side of the glass. Jungle cats.
They planned a dramatic escape and found the path to freedom when I was busy bringing in groceries with the back door ajar. Now, they are indoor/outdoor cats.
Sometimes indoor/outdoor/indoor/outdoor cats—all within one hour. In fact, Finnegan meowed loudly at the patio door the other morning. I let him in and he scurried downstairs to use his litter box.
“But Finnegan,” I said, using my annoyed voice with an emphatic stomping of my foot. “You were just outside in nature’s litter box.” He was having none of it.
Casey and Finnegan like to drag themselves under the furniture, using their claws dug into the fabric on the underside of the sofa and chair to help them glide across the floor.
When they get rough-housing, they run through the house like a herd of elephants and can move the living room chair all the way across the room.
They like the sound of their claws on my window screens. They like to hide in cupboards and have figured out how to use their paws to get the cupboard doors open.
They like to sit in my kitchen sink when I am not looking. And despite my shouting and hysteria when I catch them, this never seems to dissuade future sink-sitting episodes.
And they absolutely are obsessed with destroying box springs and any exposed mattress they can find. So much so that bedroom doors must be kept closed unless these two felines are supervised.
I’m weary of supervising Casey and Finnegan. I want them to get it that I rescued them from certain death and separation from each other. I want them to appreciate my generosity and return the favour by not destroying my house.
I’m all for affection, but I want them to appreciate that sometimes I like to sit unencumbered—to just relax without them climbing on me and kneading my legs with their claws and fiddling with my pony-tail.
Is this really too much to ask? When I lie down for a little rest on my bed, I really don’t need them both crawling under my comforter and turning my rest-time into a wrestling match.
My mother’s rule when I was growing up was a strongly-voiced, “No cats in the house!” She had allergies. I thought it was a harsh stance considering how cold Fort Frances winters were and how cute the kittens were—and how much fun we had with them when we snuck them into the house in my mother’s absence.
But now I have a better understanding of her position on cats in the house, and her position on a few other things.
So the next time you consider saving the life of some lost animal, and before you welcome said animal into your house, think carefully. Think very, very carefully.
And then do it anyway, all while hearing my voice in your head saying, “Told you so, told you so.”

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