*Editor’s note: The Pinedale Roundup is offering this new series, Roundup Rescue, chronicling the adventures of eight foster kittens from Happy Endings Animal Rescue, a nonprofit 501(c)3, as a public service to our community. Through the eyes of a foster, you'll get a glimpse into what the experience is really like—the early mornings, the endless laundry, the antics and the incredible reward of watching vulnerable animals grow into healthy, adoptable pets searching for their forever homes in our community. A new story will be published each week in the Pinedale Roundup for the next five weeks.
Nobody asks the resident cats if they want to foster.
When I signed up to bring eight kittens into The Cat Ranch, the decision involved me, Happy Endings, and Animal Control. It did not involve a formal vote from Mo, Tom, Wyatt, Gary, Minky Minky, or Squish-ist. They woke up one day, and things were different. How each responded says everything about who they are.
Mo — Mojo, if you’re not yet on her list — has been my Ride or Die since I rescued her in the fall of 2018. She is eleven, long-haired, magnificent, and one hundred percent certain she did not sign up for this. She understands that aggression will not be tolerated, but she reserves the right to remind me of her feelings regularly, with eye contact and very pointed silence. She is not wrong. I am asking a great deal of her.
Which is why the bowl goes down first. Every morning, before the kitten slurry, before the Rookie breakfast rush, before Gary does whatever Gary is going to do — Mo’s bowl goes down first. She has a permanent spot on the heated bed next to my desk, expected to share it, which she does on her own terms. When I finish daily Cat Ranch maintenance, I bring her upstairs to settle in beside me. She is the face that launched a mini fancy cat nation. The Cat Tax is high. I pay it willingly.
Tom takes a different view. He is a retired gentleman of about six, absurdly affectionate — he has held my hand since the day we met, literally — and a kitten professional. He has seen this before. His approach is quiet, professional courtesy: gentle limits when needed, and when Gary — our tuxedo Rookie, eight months old and still becoming himself — chews on his ears or gets too big for his boots, Tom absorbs it with the patience of someone who has made peace with youthful chaos.
Gary surprised me. He came to us in January, introduced as “He’s an asshole,” which is an effective sales pitch for a certain kind of cat person. He latched immediately onto Tom, who had soothed, reprimanded, and occasionally just let him be crazy — exactly what a kitten needs from an older cat. Over the past two weeks, Gary has started parkour-ing with Velvet, wrestling with Miller and Aureo, and revealing the fantastic fellow he’s heading toward becoming. Tom laid that foundation.
Wyatt watches. Carefully, from a considered distance. Thoughtful in the way some cats simply are — he takes in information before he acts. He has not rushed the process, and I haven’t asked him to. Then there are the Rookies: all born Sept. 29, not yet eight months old when the fosters arrived. Domestic shorthairs, which makes them appear smaller than my long-haired Ragdolls. This is, I want to be clear, a perception flaw. Squish-ist — a calico whose expertise is aggressive, joyful affection — was the one who found herself in the toilet at 1 a.m. and emerged undaunted. She continues as bathroom supervisor.
None of this happens automatically. A foster home only works if the resident animals can handle the disruption, and knowing your animals well enough to make that call is part of the responsibility. Tom’s temperament, Mo’s firm but non-aggressive limits, Gary’s unexpected willingness to engage — these are why eight foster kittens can share a house with six resident cats without anyone having a crisis. Usually.
The Cat Tax is what we owe the animals who were here first. The bowl that goes down before anyone else’s. The heated bed. The daily acknowledgment that their patience is not nothing — it is everything. Mo didn’t sign up for this. But she’s here, holding the line with grace. In early July, the Rumpelstiltskin litter will head to Happy Endings Animal Rescue, the Cat Ranch will quiet down, and Tom will go back to simply holding my hand. As it turns out, that’s more than enough.
