I returned my foster kitten to the ASPCA yesterday so he can get neutered and put up for adoption. It was awful. I want so badly to adopt him. But I already have three cats in a small New York City apartment, and my cats were not happy while he was here. That might have changed eventually, because they went from hating him to putting up with him, so maybe it would have evolved to love one day. But this morning they’re moving about the apartment instead of spending all day in the bedroom, and life is good for them again.
The problem is, since my cats didn’t want anything to do with him at first, he spent all his time with me, and he and I bonded. I absolutely adore him. I got him through his fear of toys, and my floor is covered right now with ping pong balls and bottle caps from Half & Half containers—his favorite—and I don’t want to clean everything up. I sobbed while washing out his litterbox for the last time. Yes, I’m insane. I KNOW. But what can I say? How many never-fail sources of happiness are there in the world and he made me happy all the time.
Three cats is already too many, alas. And it just doesn’t seem right to make my three guys miserable and to deprive the little guy at a chance in a home with another cat who actually likes him. Keeping him is the best thing for me, but not for him (I think, who knows??) or my cats.
But my heart is completely broken. It doesn’t mean I don’t love the others and I’d feel the same way if any one of them went away, but even though my apartment is essentially full of cats, it feels empty. His name was Quiche, but I called him Q. Goodbye little Q. I will love you forever.
A window box in the West Village.