Murphy, Pumpkin and Pooky. Photo Meg Turville-Heitz
I am an unabashed cat person. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve lived with and loved dogs. My last dog, Murphy, a shepherd/collie mix who was a giant and jolly shedding machine and lover of cats, broke my heart, and I said never again. Cats fit my lifestyle better, especially with travel and long days away from home. I’m currently kept by two indoor cats, sPooky (the s is silent) and Pumpkin, shelter rescues adopted together10 years ago.
I don’t recall ever living with fewer than than two cats in the house and sometimes that number temporarily crept as high as five, which was getting into serious cat lady territory. When I bought the farm, the former owners left behind an elderly cat (Blueberry), her wild adult offspring (Shadow) and Blueberry’s last single kitten (Raspberry). I trapped, spayed and (mostly) tamed them. But neighbor dogs running loose killed Blueberry, Raspberry became a house cat and Shadow was all alone. As I began adding chickens (and sheep) a neighbor convinced me I needed more working cats to manage the inevitable rats and mice that show up anywhere you keep a handful of chicken feed. They “conveniently” had a trio of tame kittens to offer that my then five-year-old son immediately dubbed Spot, Pig and Callie and “owned” before I could say yes. They were great cats. They proved themselves efficient, offering me the remains of dead rats they were willing to share (ahem) in exchange for a little daily kibble.
Pumpkin and Pooky. Photo: Meg Turville-Heitz
Almost 20 years on, the mice and rats began taking over again when in the depth of pandemic winter I realized the last survivor, Pig, was no longer up to the job. My local no-kill shelter has trap-neuter-release and working cat programs and had recently taken in rescues from a hoarding situation. When I called about working cats they convinced me I needed three wild kittens they wanted to place together. There appears to be a pattern here of me being resistant to saying “no.”
During those desperate months of winter 2021, with the COVID death toll rising, isolated and working from home with no vaccine yet available and the frightening aftermath of January 6 dominating the news, I really needed a trio of completely feral kittens. Seriously.
I shared their journey on Facebook and after a couple of requests from their followers, compiled most of the posts and some of the photos into one document that can be found here. The leader of the resistance, who signed her missives from prison “Your Comrade,” soon had followers on Facebook asking for news of “Comrade.” Once I heard her “voice” in her pleas for rescue, her siblings took on the names Boris and Natasha, after the Russian spies from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons.
Unfortunately, only two of them have made it to their third birthday. We lost Boris on a mission, brave resistance fighter that she was. But Natasha and Comrade soldier on, Natasha inviting in an occasional fellow resistance fighter to share in their kibble, much to Comrade’s dismay.
As I write this I’m being told that it’s time to pour the kibble for the resistance. You can also find their story linked on the nonfiction page here.
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