Due to the length of this story, it will be in two parts.

Have you ever told a story that runs the emotional gamut—surprise, amusement, anxiety, fear, happiness, sadness, and gratitude? Well, this tale checks every box and even throws in a little chaos for good measure. It’s not my story, but my son Steven’s. The year was 2004.

One bright spring morning, Steven, coffee in hand, was hustling around his kitchen when something outside caught his eye. Through the patio door, he spied three of the most adorable kittens frolicking about, like tiny, chaotic acrobats in a whirlwind of tangled tails, darting heads, and tumbling bodies.

“Where on Earth did they come from?” he thought, staring at the unexpected feline circus in his backyard.

The mystery didn’t last long. As it turned out, a mama cat had set up shop under his neighbour’s deck and delivered these little furballs into the world. Unfortunately, it appeared Mama Cat had decided she was done with this parenting gig and pulled a Houdini. She was MIA, leaving her offspring to fend for themselves. With no one to teach them the finer points of feline grace—or at least how to pretend to be indifferent—these scrappy kittens were now Steven’s unofficial backyard squatters.

Steven, a self-proclaimed cat lover (and soft touch), was both delighted and concerned. He already had two cats, Bonnie and Clyde, who ruled his household with a mix of grace and quiet authority. Watching these kittens’ antics was quite entertaining, but it was clear they couldn’t stay in the wild. They needed homes—not to mention an emergency crash course in house-cat etiquette.

First things first: names. The fluffiest one was dubbed Fluffy (because sometimes, obvious works). The black-and-white kitten with a white spot on the tip of his tail became Spot (again, no prizes for creativity here). And the tuxedoed charmer was named Chaplain, after Charlie Chaplin, because his slapstick antics were pure comedy gold.

Naming them was the easy part. Now Steven had to figure out how to capture these furry fugitives. And let’s just say, they weren’t about to surrender willingly. The moment a human came within five feet, they transformed into tiny blurs of fur and panic, scattering like someone had yelled, “The vet is coming!”

So, Steven hatched a plan—a patient, snack-centric plan. He started by leaving food just outside the patio door and keeping a respectful distance. The kittens’ curiosity, fuelled by growling stomachs, got the better of them. Slowly, they inched toward the food, their wide eyes darting between the dish and the giant, terrifying human.

Over the course of weeks, Steven gradually upped the ante, laying a trail of kitty treats that led tantalizingly inside the house by a few feet. Finally, the big day came. All three kittens ventured inside, noses down, tails up, and bellies full of misplaced confidence. It was a moment of triumph. Steven slammed the door shut. Step 1 of Operation Kitty Rescue: complete.

What followed, however, was pure mayhem. Trapped in unfamiliar territory, the kittens went full feral. They sprinted up the curtains, skidded across the couch, and vanished under the table, leaving behind a trail of claw marks and destruction. Step 2—getting them to calm down—would require every ounce of Steven’s patience.

Armed with a laser pointer, soothing words, and an obscene quantity of treats, Steven slowly won them over. Hours turned into days, but eventually, the trio allowed him to pet them. Soon, they even tolerated being picked up. Victory was in sight. Then came The Ultimate Challenge: a trip to the Animal Care Clinic.

If you’ve ever owned a cat, you know they possess a sixth sense for impending doom. The mere sight of a carrier sends them into full-blown survival mode. Wrangling all three into separate carriers took what Steven later described as tactical genius—a blend of strategy, speed, and sheer determination. Since the goal was to adopt them out to loving homes, the agenda for the day included full examinations, neutering, vaccinations, and microchipping. Dr. Joy, a seasoned veterinarian with a reputation for her uncanny way with animals, was ready. Or so she thought.

The trouble began as soon as they arrived. Fluffy channeled her inner ninja, Spot hissed like a boiling kettle, and Chaplain, the calmest of the trio—and that wasn’t saying much—quivered in his cage. But nothing could have prepared the humans for the pandemonium that broke out when the doors of the carriers were opened. Spot bolted out like his tail was on fire, leaping onto a cabinet, sending a jar of syringes clattering to the floor in a dramatic cascade. Fluffy, wide-eyed and puffed up like an oversized feather duster, launched herself across the exam table, scaling the window valance in one gravity-defying leap. Clinging to the blinds, she began her slow descent, bending and snapping plastic slats on her way down.

“Oh my God,” thought Steven, “I wonder how much new blinds cost?”

Meanwhile, Chaplain remained frozen in place, too terrified to even consider escape.

Dr. Joy surveyed the scene: syringes scattered, blinds destroyed, and two out of three cats wreaking havoc. For the first time in her illustrious career, she looked genuinely defeated. But Dr. Joy wasn’t one to back down. With her assistant in tow and armed with full-body suits, padded mitts, and a long noose pole, she mounted a tactical operation to capture the ferocious felines. Against all odds, they emerged victorious, completing the exams and procedures.

As Steven prepared to leave, the clinic staff handed him the trio’s visit report. He wasn’t surprised to see, in bold letters, the verdict:

“Extremely Feral Cats. Approach With Caution.”

To Be Continued

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