Fun fact: People who are allergic to cats are actually allergic to their “dander,” which is a mixture of cat hair, saliva and skin particles.
It was the first cold evening in October, and I was wearing only a cardigan. By the time we got home from Bible class, my teeth were chattering. I rushed inside with the kids, leaving my husband to tend to whatever chores needed finishing outside. A few minutes later, I heard a knock on the front door. I looked out the window, puzzled — even more so when I saw my husband standing there. He was grinning and pointing down. My eyes followed, and I gasped.
“Kids! Come look!” I said. “Kittens!”
There were three of them. Two Tabbies — one gray and one orange. The third one was the color of charcoal. He was the bold one, already weaving around my husband’s long legs while the other two vocalized their support. My eyes rose to lock with his.
What would we do with them?
We were allergic. I had explained this to the kids often when they asked why we didn’t have a pet. I had no doubt it was true. Whenever my son spent the night with his cousin (two cats, one dog), we had to dose him with Benadryl. I also struggled whenever I slept over at my sister’s house, with my nose tickling all night as I eyed her cat suspiciously.
There was no way we could take in three cats!
That’s what my mind said. Meanwhile, my mouth was betraying me. “Lead them to the back porch!” I heard myself say.
My husband complied, proving himself to be either a natural cat wrangler or the Pied Piper. They followed him without fuss.
My mind said no but my hands and feet sided with my mouth. Before I knew it, I was grabbing a Costco box, an old blanket and a towel. I pushed them into my son’s hands and pointed him to the back door.
“Get out a plastic cereal bowl,” I told my daughter. “Fill it with water.” Meanwhile, I rummaged in the pantry, coming up with a can of tuna.
My mind was telling me to stop. My mouth said, “They must be hungry.”
I opened the tuna and followed my kids outside. The kittens responded immediately, circling my legs and softly mewling their pleasure over what they could smell.
“Okay, okay.” I stooped to place the dish in front of them. “You like tuna?”
Watching the kittens gobble up the tuna, I forgot it was cold. The gray boy was pushy with his two Tabby sisters, so I intervened, pulling him away so they could get their fair share. It wasn’t difficult to coax them all into the blanket-lined box we set up in the corner. My kids were thrilled with all of it, exclaiming happily over every yawn or meow, cooing every time the kittens stretched or curled up in a ball to sleep.
When I checked on them the next morning, they were still there.
Now what were we going to do?
Buy cat food.
The kittens wandered over the next couple of weeks, but always came back at night to sleep on our porch. The gray Tabby was the least likely to roam far. From time to time, I would hear her on the back porch, crying toward the stream, beckoning her siblings home. She remained skittish when we tried to pet her, but was bold in other ways. Occasionally, she would dash inside the house when I opened the door.
“No,” I told her. “That will never be okay.”
Would it surprise you if I said that today, three years later, she’s curled up in the middle of my unmade bed?
We found a home for the orange Tabby with a friend of a friend. She is now a fat and happy house cat named Mango. Her brother ran off one day and, sadly, we never saw him again. By that time, I knew I couldn’t part with our little gray Tabby, despite my sniffling nose. We named her Katniss and cautiously invited her indoors from time to time while I wracked my brain trying to figure out how to handle all the cat dander. By Christmas, she was letting us hold her, sleeping under the tree, batting at the glittering balls, and begging to go outside so she could pounce through the fresh snow.
Over the years, Katniss has been the perfect pet for us. Yes, we’ve had to figure out how to deal with our allergy issues, but it hasn’t been as bad as we feared. And we all agree that caring for a cat is easier than caring for a dog — we even have a wonderful cat-loving friend who checks in on her when we travel. Having Katniss has also been wonderful for my autistic son, who has always been nervous around dogs. Having a gentle, purring fur ball to snuggle with has been especially helpful for him.
One night, not long after we decided we would keep Katniss, she was lying in my daughter’s arms, her head flung back against the crook of her elbow, her tummy exposed and enjoying a good scratch.
“God works in mysterious ways,” my daughter said solemnly.
My lips twitched. “How’s that?” I asked.
“Well,” she said. “I prayed for a dog, and He sent us a cat.”
~Jennifer Froelich
