I return to the summer of 2002, drawn by an invisible magnet to a mystic summer, painted in pastel perfection as only memories can be. Remember the best; the rest floats away, the dust of cat litter in the wind.
There was something special about being with the cats then: a magical time of connecting with so many feline souls that live on right here, in my head. I can imagine myself one day in a nursing home, the ghosts of cats around me, the story of another time.
It was playtime at the cat pens that summer: Tango, Morgan and Spritzer had arrived. Three six month old feral kittens, adventure in their eyes, attitude in their claws. Tango golden auburn, a beautiful boy. Morgan a tabby treasure. And Spritzer, tortoiseshell, tabby and white and all shades in between, a strong spirit that bordered on madness in her eyes.
When they had their turn in the outer corridor, they raced around with glee, their wild nature appeased. They would climb on top of the doors, and chase each other around with unquenched energy.
I believe they were homed to a country home or a farm. They would be 12 now, and no doubt have long since forgotten the cat pens. But Spritzer’s fiery soul will live on there, a spark in the air, a promise of a better life to come.