Many kitties have rescue tales, and this rescue proved to be reciprocal.

I was working with PAWS, a volunteer every other Friday at Petsmart. Not as much help as they needed, but Friday night was one they had trouble filling, and I was retired, and half sick, too, so I was not out on the town. I am a long time cat lady, who has learned slowly and over the years about cats from cats. I know they need their space. I cleaned cages, scooped poop, cuddled when the cats allowed or required, wrote notes for the folks in charge, took information, tried to get visitors to understand the PAWS rules.

I soon learned the potential adoptees were a lot more trouble than the cats. There were women who wanted to park kids there, or bring in a pushing mob + stroller. All those little voices were apparently tuned to screaming over the TV at home. Some of these rescue cats really weren’t up to that much humanity, especially when backed into cages in a narrow, walled in glass space. I put my foot down, as had others before me, and signs posted on the door by the store managers helped. “No kids without parents! No more than three people at a time!”

I’d been there for nearly two years, taking my place behind the glass wall, sweeping the floor, cleaning, making sure there was food and water, that all were present and accounted for at lock-up time, when my illness reached a crisis. I had ulcerative colitis and there was much blood and pain. I didn't know it, but I was on the verge of my first emergency hospitalization, the evening the super cat mommys brought in a special batch of kittens.

It was just after Christmas, and these were about six months old, mostly black. As in all rescues, theirs was a story. The head of our local PAWS had a husband who was a hunter, often at his gun club, and he was the one who’d spotted the queen, hiding under the porch. Next he heard the mews of tiny kittens, and he’d persuaded others who didn’t like cats to leave them alone until he went home and got a live trap. These kitties had been fostered for several months by the time they got to the store, and the now neutered Mama already had her "forever home."

A cage full of kittens is a wonderful sight—all tumbling acrobatics, mock fights and sass. It was so much fun to lock the entrance to the space and let the little ones out to play in the small area in front of the cages. (Nothing revs up potential adoptees like watching kittens through the glass!) I dropped balls and stuffed mice around, got out the feather teaser, and began to enjoy them leaping around, chasing each other crazily through the limited space, batting balls, rolling and sliding on the linoleum, and just generally having a big old time. They’d all been given “sportsman” names: Blue Steel, Bullet, Smith, Bowie, Archer, Fisher, and Hunter. Three were tuxedos, adorable with round heads and big eyes, and neat white mittens and full bibs.

I was enjoying their games and forgetting my gut when I heard a soft mew behind me. I turned, and there was one who hadn’t joined the others in the wild leap to the floor. He was totally black, with just a few odd white hairs on his chest. He was also the only one in the litter with an elegant, almost oriental head and lithe torso. I stepped close to the cage, and he simply hopped out onto my shoulder, then slipped down into my waiting arms. In the next moment, he was kissing me, and patting my face gently with dainty paws. It was kitty love at first sight. He didn’t want to get down with the others. He wanted to be held, to rub his face against mine and share vibrations. That is, as cat people know, not the norm with kittens, especially when all your brothers and sisters are blasting around like furry maniacs on the floor. I was feeling rotten that night, and knew it would be my final tour of duty, that even two hours serving the public was approaching too much. And I’d "owned" enough cats to recognize what this was—fate! I'd been chosen.

When he was done kissing, I turned back his delicate ear to see the number of his PAWS tattoo, and before I went home, I left an application for adoption on the cage. I knew I’d have an uphill battle convincing my husband to take in another kitty—it had been part of the deal of my volunteering that there were to be no more cats—but within a week I brought him home—our beautiful from-under-the-gun-club “Hunter.” He stayed in bed with me almost constantly as I declined toward the several near-death experiences which punctuated the year.

Every kitty is a gift, and this one, with the kisses and hugs which he still lavishes daily, is something beyond special. I know he helped me every bit as much as I helped him.