So. Last Wednesday. We were out for dinner, doing the usual late-night sweet drink run on the way home. My husband hopped out to grab the supplies, leaving me locked in the car. That’s when I saw it: a tiny black ball of fur perched on the shop stairs.
Two wide eyes. Two pointy ears. Whiskers for days. A kitten.
Not just any kitten—a black one. His teeny-tiny mom was nearby, but she was busy, and he was just there on the concrete, puffing up for warmth with a sibling. I rolled down the window, we locked eyes, and that was it.
He was perfect. I was in love. And I was about to commit a cat-napping.
Before you blame my bipolar brain for a “manic impulse buy”—wait. Context matters. We actually had a vacancy in our feline roster. We’d recently tried to adopt a kitten who ended up being too homesick to stay, so there was an empty spot next to my grey cat and my two fat tabbies. I’d been manifesting a ginger or a “void” (a black cat) to complete the collection.
My husband walked back to the car, and before he could even touch his seatbelt, I gave the order: “I want that kitten. I’ve got a spare bag. Let’s go.”
No explanation. No debate. Just an exasperated smile from him as he followed me back out into the humid night to see the creature I’d just become infatuated with.
The rescue mission was a success. We checked with the shopkeeper—he was a stray. Perfect. We bagged him (literally) and headed home.
But by 9:30 PM, reality hit. This poor little guy was a walking buffet for fleas. They were eating him alive, and he was already skin and bones. He couldn’t mingle with my resident cats yet, so we raced to a 24/7 vet. They fluffed him up with flea-killing powder and gave him some much-needed relief.
I didn’t know how old he was. I’m a little rusty with handling kittens but he was probably still relying on his mother’s breastmilk, so we also visited the pet store and got baby cat things without going over the top (we just got the basics).
I’m a bit rusty on the “baby-kitten” stage, and he was likely still nursing, so we hit the pet store for the newborn basics. Pro tip: Don’t let a tiny kitten explore a bathroom unless you want to spend your midnight hours sweating and crying while trying to fish him out from behind the toilet. He lived the suite life in an X-Large carrier while we monitor his progress.
Look at that face, though!
Since the “heist,” he’s had two baths because he was a stinky little man. Plot twist: he actually likes the warm water. No drama, no claws. A weekend vet check confirmed he’s doing well, minus a small ulcer under his tongue. He’s eating like a champ, using the litter box like a pro, and proving he’s a very smart boy.
We’re calling him Kopi. In the sun, his fur isn’t pitch black; it’s a deep, rich brown. Like a strong cup of coffee. Something I’m currently obsessed with.
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