The Inmate's Cat...

The Tourist Nest ??? · My neighbour went to prison. Asked me to watch his cat "for a few weeks." That was three years ago. Every month without fail I get a handwritten letter in the mail addressed to the cat. I read them to her. She sits on the letter when I'm done every single time. I have 34 letters in a shoebox. He gets out in November. She still sits at his front door every morning. I need to tell this story because this man is coming home in four months and someone needs to know what his cat has been doing while he waited. My neighbour — I'll call him R — lived in the other half of our duplex in a working-class neighbourhood outside of Cincinnati. Single guy, late thirties, quiet. We shared a wall for about two years. He was polite. We weren't close. He kept to himself, worked odd shifts, didn't cause problems. He had a cat. A big orange-and-white tabby, probably seven or eight years old, named Clementine. That cat sat in his front window every day like a security guard. If you walked past the duplex, Clementine was watching you. Always. In the fall of 2023, R knocked on my door one evening. He looked rough. He told me he had to go away for a while and asked if I could watch Clementine. He said "a few weeks." He handed me a bag of dry food, her vet records in a folder, and a litter box. He scratched her head, set her inside my door, and left. I found out from another neighbour two days later that R had been sentenced and was being transferred to a facility about three hours south. I won't say what for because it's not my business and it's not the point of this story. I'll say only that it was nonviolent and that R never talked about it and neither will I. A few weeks turned into a month. A month turned into a year. His unit sat empty. The landlord eventually re-rented it. I kept the cat. Clementine adjusted to my place but she didn't adjust to R being gone. For the first two months, she sat at my front door every morning from about 6 to 7 a.m. Just staring at it. Waiting. She didn't meow. She didn't scratch. She just sat there and watched the door like she was on a schedule. When I opened it, she'd walk across the shared porch to R's front door — six feet away — and sit in front of it. Sometimes for twenty minutes. Then she'd come back inside. She still does this. Three years. Every single morning. She goes to his door, sits, waits, comes back. His door isn't even his anymore. Someone else lives there now. Clementine doesn't care. She sits at the door she saw him leave through and she waits. About three months after R left, I got a letter in the mail. Handwritten, lined notebook paper, standard prison envelope. It was addressed to Clementine. Not me. The cat. Full name on the envelope — "Clementine, c/o" and then my name and address. I opened it. It was a short letter. I'm not going to share the exact words because they're not mine. But I'll describe it. He wrote to her like she was a person. He told her about his day. He told her what he ate for dinner. He told her he missed sitting on the couch with her. He told her he was sorry for leaving. He said he'd be home and to be good for me. He signed it with his initial and drew a small picture of a cat face at the bottom. Not well. Just a circle with triangle ears and whiskers. Like a child would draw. I read it out loud to Clementine because I didn't know what else to do. She sat on the kitchen floor and looked at me the entire time. When I finished, I put the letter on the floor to see what she'd do. She sniffed it. Then she sat on it. I thought it was a coincidence. The next month, another letter arrived. Same format. Handwritten, addressed to the cat. I read it to her. I put it on the floor. She sat on it. She has done this with every single letter. Thirty-four letters over thirty-four months. She sits on each one. Every time. She stays on it for five, ten, sometimes twenty minutes. Then she gets up and walks away and I put the letter in a shoebox in my closet. I have thirty-four handwritten letters from a man in prison to his cat in a Nike shoebox on my closet shelf. Every one of them is addressed to Clementine. Every one of them asks how she's doing and tells her he's coming home. The letters have changed over three years. The early ones were short and rough. He didn't write much. By year two, they got longer. He started telling her about books he was reading. He started asking me questions in the margins — "is she eating okay" or "does she still like the window spot." I started writing back. Short notes. Updates. I sent him a photo of Clementine once and he wrote back that he put it on his wall. He gets out in November. I haven't told R about the door thing. I haven't told him that his cat walks to his old front door every morning and sits there. I haven't told him about the letters, about how she sits on every single one. I'll tell him when he gets home. Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just hand him the shoebox and let her show him herself. People are going to judge R. People judge people who go to prison. I'm not asking anyone to feel sorry for him or to make him a hero. He made choices. He did his time. That's between him and the law. But what I will say is this. You learn something about a person from how their animal waits for them. Clementine has not forgotten this man for one single day in three years. She goes to his door every morning. She sits on his letters. She sleeps on a t-shirt of his that I kept in her bed because it was the only thing that stopped her from crying the first month. Animals don't wait like that for people who weren't good to them. That's not how it works. You can't fake what Clementine does every morning at that door. Three years. Rain, snow, July heat. Same door. Same routine. Waiting for the same person. Whatever R did or didn't do, he was good to that cat. And she is keeping his seat warm until he gets back. November. Four months. I hope she hears his footsteps before I do. I think she's earned that

A Liferime of Love...

Leonard...

Cats World · · New York, NY >>> · He came in the first time on a Saturday in January. He had just retired. He lived alone. He had always had cats. He couldn't afford one right now — the adoption fee, the vet setup costs, the first month of supplies — it added up to more than his budget could stretch that month. 🐾❤️ He asked if he could just visit. The shelter said yes. He met Leonard. 9 years old. Grey tabby. Had been at the shelter for two months. Thomas sat with him for an hour. Leonard sat in his lap the entire time. He came back the next Saturday. And the next. By month three the staff knew his name and his parking spot and that he took his coffee black from the vending machine and always brought Leonard a specific treat — the ones Leonard liked best, which Thomas had learned by week four. By month six Leonard waited at the front of his cage on Saturdays. The staff noticed. They mentioned it to each other. They started watching the clock at 2 PM on Saturdays. On week 23 the shelter director mentioned it to the weekend coordinator. On week 24 the weekend coordinator mentioned it at a staff meeting. By week 25 twelve people had quietly put money in a jar on the front desk labeled simply: "Thomas and Leonard." It took until week 49 to reach the full fee. They waited until week 52 because it felt right. Thomas arrived on Saturday at 2 PM. He got his coffee. He went to the visitation room. Leonard was already there — the staff had brought him early. Thomas sat down. Leonard got in his lap. Thomas didn't notice the three staff members in the doorway. The director walked in. She put the adoption certificate on the table. Thomas looked at it. He looked at her. "We've been collecting since week 23," she said. "When we realized you weren't stopping." Thomas looked at Leonard. Leonard was purring. Leonard did not know the fee had been a problem. Leonard had never understood why there were 51 Saturdays that ended without going home. Today was not that Saturday. Leonard went home at 3:47 PM. The jar is still on the front desk. The staff kept it. It's empty now. It is the best empty jar in the building

Cat's Corner · July 22 at 3:09 AM >>>

· I was twelve when I carried my dead grandmother's cat across town, hoping that somewhere she would be loved more than life had ever loved me. The box grew heavier with every step. Not because Minka was big. She wasn't. She was old and thin, with white fur that had already turned yellowish on her paws and ears. Hardly a sound came from the box. Just the occasional soft meow, as if she were asking something I had no answer for. I kept saying, "It's okay, girl. We'll be there soon." That was a lie. I didn't even know myself if anything would ever be okay again. My grandmother had died on a Tuesday morning while I was at school. By Friday, I was already back in foster care on the other side of town. My things were in two garbage bags. And her cat was lying on my lap, as if she already understood that everything was broken. The foster family wasn't angry. They only had rules. No animals. Enough problems already. Too much hair, too much smell, too expensive, too much work, too risky. I heard that on the very first evening. And I also heard an adult say, "The cat's already old anyway." Already old. As if that would make it easier to get rid of her. Minka had belonged to my grandmother for twelve years. Grandma always called her "my grumpy little roommate." Every night, Minka slept at the foot of her bed. Every morning, Grandma kept her hands warm on her coffee cup and talked to this cat as if she were a person. When Grandma was no longer there, Minka waited first by the bedroom door. Then by the window. Then on Grandma's old cardigan, the brown one that still smelled faintly of powder and peppermint. I knew what that kind of waiting felt like. So I started secretly feeding her. First, I took my pocket money. Three crumpled euros and a few coins from the bottom of my backpack. At the kiosk, I bought the cheapest cat food I could find. When that was gone, I started saving some of the leftovers from dinner. A bit of chicken. Half a sandwich. A few pieces of tuna, if there was any. Some nights I went to bed hungry because Minka had eaten first. I never felt sorry for myself. I just thought of Grandma's hands, crooked from arthritis, scratching Minka behind the ears and saying, "Promise me no one will put her out on the street." I had promised. And then life took a turn, and I couldn't keep that promise the way I wanted to. So I tried to keep it in the only way I could. I found the animal shelter's address on a poster at the bus stop. I didn't have any money for the bus. And I didn't want to tell anyone where I was going. If they had known, they might have stopped me. Or worse: they might have simply taken Minka themselves and dropped her off as if she were nothing. So, early Saturday morning, I got up, put Minka in an old cardboard box with air holes in the sides, laid Grandma's cardigan next to her, and started walking. It was more than five kilometers. My arms were already aching before I even reached the second corner. Cars drove by. Dogs barked from behind fences. At one point, I had to stop and put the box on the curb because my hands were shaking so badly I thought I was going to drop it. When I lifted the lid a little, Minka blinked at me with her dull old eyes and pressed her face into the cardigan. "I know," I whispered. "Me too." When I finally arrived at the animal shelter, the T-shirt was sticking to my back, and my legs felt soft. I almost turned around when I saw the front door. I almost wanted to take Minka back with me and just keep hiding her for as long as possible. But hiding isn't the same as rescuing. A woman at reception looked up when I came in. She was maybe in her early sixties, with tired eyes and a kind face that made me want to burst into tears. "Well, hello there," she said softly. "Who have you got with you?" I put the box down on the floor because I couldn't carry it for another second. "My cat," I said. She crouched down and lifted the lid just enough to see Minka, curled up in her cardigan. "Oh," she said. "She's so beautiful." I was on the verge of completely breaking down. I pulled the folded note out of my jacket pocket and gave it to her before I lost my nerve. It said: Her name is Minka. She's old, but very sweet. She likes soft blankets and tuna. She likes to nap by the window in the afternoon. She belonged to my grandmother, and my grandmother has passed away. Please don't let Minka think that everyone always leaves. The woman read the note once. Then again, more slowly. When she looked at me again,She had tears in her eyes. "Did you walk all the way here by yourself?" she asked. I nodded. "How far?" "A little over five kilometers." She pressed her lips together, as if she had to restrain herself. Then she said, "Bringing her here was brave." I shook my head. "It doesn't feel brave." No, I didn't stay long. I stroked Minka one last time. She pressed herself into my hand, and for a terrible moment, I just wanted to grab the box again and run away with her. Instead, I simply said, "Be good, girl." Then I turned and left before she could see me leaving her. That evening, I automatically wrapped a piece of bread in a napkin while eating, before it occurred to me that there was no cat waiting for me there anymore. That night I cried into my pillow so no one would hear. Three days later, the woman from the animal shelter found me. Her name was Mrs. Schneider. Somehow, she had tracked me down through the flyer, the poster, and a great deal of kindness. She said that a picture of Minka and my letter had been circulated all over town. People had cried. They had called. They had asked about her. An elderly couple had taken Minka in. A quiet apartment. A large, sunny window. Soft blankets everywhere. Then Mrs. Schneider smiled a little and said, "There's something else." A family had also seen the post. Not a rich family. Not a fairytale. Just good people, she said. They wanted to meet the young man who loved an old cat so much that he would rather go hungry himself and walk five kilometers to keep her safe. A week later, Mrs. Schneider took me with her so I could visit Minka in her new home. She was lying on the back of the sofa, in a patch of sunshine. Grandma's cardigan was neatly folded beside her. When she heard my voice, she lifted her head. For a moment, I was afraid. Then she made that same soft little meow and slowly came over to me. I immediately dropped to my knees, and she pressed herself against my chest as if she had remembered everything. At the time, I thought that with Minka, I was losing the last thing I had left of my grandma. In the end, it was the first step toward us both finally finding a home.

Bench...

Trassima cats >>> · A homeless man died on a bench in December. The shelter wouldn't take his cat. So the cat stayed on the bench for nine weeks, through two snowstorms, waiting for someone who was never coming back. In the winter of 2022, a man who had been living on the streets of a mid-sized city in upstate New York was found deceased on a park bench near a bus depot on a Tuesday morning. He was estimated to be in his early sixties. He had no identification. No emergency contacts. No next of kin ever came forward. What he had was a cat. A large orange tabby, unneutered, approximately five years old, with a torn left ear and a scar across the bridge of his nose. Neighbours who frequented the area said the man and the cat had been together for at least three years. The man shared every meal with him. They slept on the same bench, the cat tucked inside the man's coat against his chest. When outreach workers had offered the man a bed at a local shelter months earlier, he had declined because the shelter did not allow animals. He chose the bench so the cat wouldn't be alone. After the man's body was removed that Tuesday morning, the cat stayed on the bench. He stayed through the first snowstorm four days later. A woman who ran a laundromat across the street watched him sit motionless on the bench for six hours while four inches accumulated around him. She brought him a bowl of food. He ate half of it. He did not leave the bench. He stayed through the second snowstorm nine days after that. Temperatures dropped to seven degrees. Someone left a cardboard box beside the bench. The cat moved into the box but positioned it so he could still see the bench seat. He was watching the spot where the man used to sit. For nine full weeks — sixty-three days — the cat did not leave the immediate area around that bench. Volunteers from a nearby feeding program left food and water daily. A retired nurse who lived in the neighbourhood brought a thermal blanket and tucked it into the box. She told a local reporter she checked on him every morning at six. Every single morning, he was in the same place, facing the same direction, watching the same empty seat. He lost nearly a third of his body weight. His fur became matted and brittle. He developed frostbite on the tips of both ears, which later had to be partially removed. A veterinarian who examined him after his rescue said he had a respiratory infection that had likely gone untreated for weeks and a cracked pad on his rear left paw from the frozen ground. He was deteriorating. He knew he was deteriorating. He did not leave. On the sixty-third day, the retired nurse arrived at six in the morning and found the cat lying flat inside the box, too weak to stand. She wrapped him in her coat and drove him directly to a veterinary clinic. He weighed just over six pounds. A healthy cat his size should weigh twelve. He was treated for hypothermia, upper respiratory infection, severe dehydration, malnutrition, and frostbite. Recovery took four weeks. The nurse adopted him formally on the first day the clinic cleared him for release. She named him Bench. The first night in her apartment, Bench walked to the living room window that faced the street, sat on the sill, and stared outside for three hours without moving. He did this every night for the first two months. The nurse said she never closed that curtain because she understood he wasn't looking at anything specific. He was keeping watch. It was the only job he had ever known. Bench is alive today. He is approximately eight years old. He sleeps on the nurse's bed every night, always on the left side, always facing the window. His ears are permanently shortened from the frostbite surgery. He still flinches when the front door opens, then relaxes when he sees it's her. The bench in the park was removed during a renovation six months after the man died. There is nothing there now to mark that spot. No plaque. No memorial. Nothing to tell anyone walking past that a man once lived his whole life on that bench because he refused to abandon a cat, and then a cat nearly died on that same bench because he refused to abandon a man. Nobody trained loyalty like that. It wasn't earned through treats or warmth or comfort. It was earned by being the one person who stayed. And when that person left, the cat did the only thing he knew how to do. He waited.

Fridge Is Such A Survivor!!!...

Nakee Bullen, a tattoo artist from Isanti, Minnesota, and her boyfriend were driving back from Los Angeles and stopped to camp near Great Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado as they visited several national parks along the way. But the trip took a devastating turn when Bullen woke up early one morning to discover both of her cats had escaped from the campsite. "I woke up at about 5:30 a.m., 6 o'clock in the morning and both of them were gone," Bullen told CBS Minnesota. One of the cats, Lewis, was found nearby, but 3-year-old Fridge was "nowhere to be seen,” Bullen said. Bullen spent hours searching for her feline friend, combing campsites within a seven-mile radius, but eventually faced what she described as the hardest decision of her life: ending the search and returning home to Minnesota without her pet. "I felt like I left a little piece of me there," Bullen said. "I was just crying because she wasn't here with me and all I wanted was my baby." Back home, Bullen refused to give up hope. She regularly checked Humane Society listings and monitored social media in case someone found Fridge. The search, however, was emotionally draining. "Every time I did it was the most heartbreaking thing, you'd see cats that look a lot like her but it wasn't her," Bullen recalled. Although park rangers told Bullen the chances of finding Fridge were extremely low, someone spotted the cat and, 40 days after she vanished, brought her to the Humane Society, where Bullen finally received the call she'd been waiting fo Bullen said she immediately made the 16-hour drive from Minnesota back to Colorado to bring her cat home. "She's a fighter. She's a certified baddie now," Bullen laughed. "It was the most amazing feeling. It was just absolute tears of joy." Despite spending more than a month on her own in the wilderness, Fridge is healthy and happy after the reunion, Bullen reported. “She's fine, she's healthy,” Bullen told CBS Minnesota. “She's a little underweight, you know, but spending 40 days in the wilderness in Colorado, I think, will do that to you." --- The Independent.

Please Take Stray Cats & Dogs You Find To Be Scanned For Microchips...

I was at the shelter yesterday when a lady and a man brought in two beautiful well-cared for cats. One was a long hair tortie and the other was a solid dark gray. they said they had found the cats hanging around their house in Marietta and that the cats seemed to be stray pets, not feral. The man and lady were looking to re-home them, but I wish I had reminded them that the cats may have been somebody's darling babies rather than abandoned strays. Folks, if you find cats or dogs who seem well-cared for please take them to have them scanned for a microchip. Many vet's offices will do this for you for free, and the "strays" you found may be united with their humans

FelV+ Cats Can Live As Long As Any Other Cat!!!...

A quiet feline named Frankie Beverly is looking for a home after spending most of her young life waiting. An Instagram video shared by @albyocwork and @puppykittynycity shows Frankie sitting inside a blue crate, with her eyes fixed on the person filming. The post says she used to be hopeful, but now stays in her crate because "hoping hurts too much." >>> ‘Saddest’ shelter cat once hopeful of getting adopted ‘has gone silent’ Frankie Beverly is one year old and has been at the shelter since she was a kitten. The video explained that she came from a colony and has been waiting while people pass by. The on-screen text says FeLV has made people walk past her, although she remains "perfectly loveable." In another frame, Frankie blinks slowly while sitting inside her crate, as the on-screen text says she was "a shadow to 8 million" people in the city. The Instagram caption calls her the "saddest cat" there, but said the saddest one is not always loud. It adds that Frankie has "gone silent." The post explains that she "just needs a home" and asks viewers to help someone notice her. Another on-screen message says, "No one posts her picture. No one shares her story. No one fights for her except for us. And we're losing." The final shot shows Frankie farther back in her crate while a person looks in from outside. The text says she needs someone to understand that her diagnosis was "not the end of her story," only "a different love story." Puppy Kitty NYCity's profile describes the group as an NYC animal rescue focused on rehabilitating street cats and ending overpopulation. Viewers have responded with well-wishes and support, with one writing, "I pray Frankie finds a loving home." Another said, "Sweet baby deserves a loving home just like every other cat."

Dexter...

Dexter's bio says he's a "F6 SBT Savannah Cat," which means he's a sixth-generation hybrid feline as defined by Stud Book Tradition (which deems these cats as purebred). There are six generations bred from a wild African Serval, with three generations as Savannah to Savannah to ensure they have the affectionate, docile temperament like other domestic cats. As big as Dexter is, these kitties can grow to be 25 pounds or more, like their wild counterparts! It's really cool that they keep the tradition of spotted or striped fur like their Serval ancestors! Though an F6 is legal in most states, that's not always the case, and with the F1 or F2, they're a lot closer to an actual Serval and less likely to be as domestic as a cutie like Dexter. Whatever he's titled as, he's one handsome mini tiger!

Dragonette...

***This gorgeous young momcat has the type of fur that Dragon had... Dragon was the most beautiful tabby I ever saw... ❤