About five years ago, a little black cat started appearing in my section of the neighborhood. She was skittish, but lovely. As a long haired cat, she reminded me of our late Nero, a black Persian with one of the sweetest, gentlest dispositions I've ever seen. She started hanging around a bit, never letting us touch her, and never lingering too long. She looked young, and I commented that if she continued to come we should have her spayed; she looked just old enough to be coming into her first heat. She started eating voracious amounts. I had just decided we needed to trap her when I opened the front door and saw a tiny kitten on the porch. It looked about 4 weeks old; toddling but not up trekking to my door. Then I realized there was another one. And another.
Yep, that barn door had already been open, horses gone, hay stolen, and wood used to fill a fireplace. I tried to pick out up and it hissed, spat, shot out its legs and rolled out of my hands. I called them The Amazing Exploding Kittens. Long story short, that's how we ended up with Flora, Elmer, and Ellen the Runt-No-More. Nuit-- the French word for "night"-- was a wonderful mother, and made no effort to wean the kittens even after they were three months old. I took her on in to be spayed, and when she came home she let Elmer nurse around her pink sutures.
Now, THAT is one patient and loving mother.
|Nuit and Flora|
She's affectionate, puts up with a lot and is still basically a gentle soul. The kittens are all much bigger than she is. She's almost as tiny as Bonnie.
And she IS tiny enough to fit between the wooden door and the storm door. Imagine my surprise-- not to mention horror!-- yesterday to open the front door and find Nuit in a cloud of fur: she'd been closed up between the two doors all night, apparently having slipped in between while I was shutting doors before going to bed.
She's none the worse for wear, but did want breakfast IMMEDIATELY if not sooner.