Category: Cats

  • Zorro – My Clumsy Little Bulldozer of Love

    Zorro showed up in the summer of 2025, and he made sure everyone knew he was there.

    He fought with every cat on the porch. He’d go after the females, start brawls inside the cat houses in the middle of the night, and send me running outside in my pajamas to chase him off. One of the outdoor cats had just had a litter and was trying to keep herself and her babies safe, and he made that as difficult as possible.

    He had a chunk of fur missing from his side, a scar around his neck where a collar had once been — or maybe something worse — and he limped. Badly enough that we started calling him Limp. He also has a toenail on his back foot that sticks straight up at an odd angle. Between the limp, the scar, and that toenail, he was easy to spot.

    He’d show up, cause problems, disappear for weeks, and then show up again like nothing happened. With his short little legs, tiny face, and compact body, I assumed he was a young cat — maybe not even a year old — just some scrappy teenage kitten with a bad attitude and nowhere to go.

    Trapping him was going to be a nightmare. He was one of two cats in the colony that I knew would be nearly impossible to catch. But somehow, by some miracle, we got him. We tried to take him to the shelter first, but they were dealing with an illness in the cat room and couldn’t take anyone new. So we headed to PALS instead — and on the way there, I realized I couldn’t walk in and tell them this cat’s name was Limp. I’d decided a long time ago that all black cats get Z names — so I needed a Z name for him. And that’s how Limp became Zorro.

    At PALS, they neutered him, checked him over, and looked at that weird toenail. Turns out he’d broken his toe at some point — probably in a fight — and it would always stick up like that. They checked out his limp too and said he’d be okay. The instructions were simple: keep him inside for 24 hours before releasing him.

    I put the trap in my bathroom, and I left him in it. I was not opening that thing. I did feed him though — I’d lift the front of the trap just enough to slide a little plate of food in and a plastic lid with water. I took care of him, I just wasn’t about to stick my hands in there. Twenty-four hours later, I carried the whole trap outside to the driveway and released him from there — I was still afraid of him, and I didn’t want him anywhere near my cats. He bolted. Gone. I didn’t see him for weeks. I didn’t know if he was alive, if he’d left the area, if he was okay. Nothing.

    And then one day, he just appeared again. But something was different. He climbed up on top of the cat house next to where I sit on the porch, and he started rubbing against me. Purring. Loving on me. Drooling everywhere. I mean everywhere — drool just pouring out of his mouth. I actually had to ask somebody if he was okay because I had never known a cat to drool like that. This was not the same cat. I started looking forward to seeing him out there. I was falling for him a little, if I’m being honest.

    But I had three cats inside already. I didn’t need a fourth. I told myself I was just his porch friend, and that was going to be enough.

    Then December came, and it got cold. Really cold. And Zorro kept showing up on my porch like he had nowhere else to go. I had winterized shelters out there, but I couldn’t stop worrying about him. A neighbor across the street had taken in a couple of the other outdoor cats when the cold hit, but Zorro didn’t make the cut. He was on my porch.

    So I brought him in.

    I put him in the spare bedroom and closed the door. When the cold snap passed, I opened the bedroom door, and he ran straight for the front door and back outside. We did this a few times over the next couple of weeks — cold snap, spare bedroom, warm up, back outside. But then one day, instead of running for the front door, he just… walked around my house. Explored. Settled in. And the weird thing was, none of my other cats were bothered. Zephyr had known him from outside, so maybe that helped. Zazu couldn’t have cared less. Zuri would hiss at him if he so much as looked at her — and honestly, she still does — but there were no real problems. He just fit.

    Then, toward the end of February, he came out of his window seat and something looked off. He stopped in the middle of the living room and just stood there, and that’s when I saw it — ooze coming from behind his ear. I cleaned it up and found a nasty abscess. I got him into a carrier, called animal services, and they came and picked him up.

    I was still telling myself I wasn’t keeping him. I sent him to the shelter hoping they’d fix him up and find him a good home.

    About a week later, I called to check on him. They said he was better and had been put up for adoption. I tried to tell myself I was happy about that — that it would be better for him if someone with more resources adopted him. The shelter website said adoptions were $97, and I couldn’t afford that. Maybe somebody else could give him a better life.

    I thought about it for maybe ten minutes.

    Then I drove to the shelter. When I got there, they were doing a luck of the draw adoption event. I pulled a card out of a bucket and his adoption fee was $5. It was meant to be.

    Also, turns out he wasn’t the kitten I thought he was. The shelter estimated he was around five years old — a full-grown adult who just happens to be built like a kitten. He’d been out there surviving on his own, fighting for everything, and carrying scars from a life I’ll never fully know about.

    Now he’s a permanent indoor cat who chirps like a bird and demands to be held. He’s got broken and missing teeth, some of them crooked, which explains all that drool. He runs what I call the nap circuit — window, lap, couch, food, chirping, window — several times a day. When he wants to get to you, nothing is going to stop him. He’ll bulldoze and plow through whatever’s in his way, wobble, lose his balance, almost fall — and then just keep coming. He’s a cuddle bug with a collar scar, a crooked toenail, and the biggest personality in a very small body.

    He was never going to be my cat. And then he was.

  • Zephyr, My Grateful Survivor

    The Broken Stray Who Brought Me Peace

    When Zephyr first showed up on my porch, he was thin, beat up, and looked like he’d been fighting for every meal and losing half the time. The sore on the back of his neck was raw and kept reopening, no matter how carefully I treated it. At some point, he decided my porch was his safe place. He stopped wandering off, started watching me through the door, and little by little, trusted that I wasn’t going to chase him away.

    Zephyr was the reason I bought the cat house. The whole setup on my porch started because of him. He’d come by hungry and cautious, and I just couldn’t stand watching him fade a little more every day. I didn’t know anything about TNR then, or what to do with a stray who clearly needed help. Just when he started trusting me enough to stay close, that’s when I met Jennika, who taught me how to trap him and get him fixed through PALS. He was the first one I ever trapped, and I felt so guilty handing him over, even though I knew it was the right thing. They neutered him, treated the sore on his neck, and removed a twisted toenail that had started growing upward from an old injury. (They told me it might grow back normal… and it did!) I brought him home to recover in Jarod’s old room, and by the end of that week, I knew he was never going back outside again.

    While he was recovering safely behind the closed door, I bought one of those cheap mesh screens off Amazon—the kind you Velcro around a doorframe—but I stapled it instead. I could unzip it to go in and out of the room as needed, or close the door completely when tensions ran high so everyone felt safe. Zazu and Zephyr hit it off almost right away. Zuri took longer. She never attacked him, just kept her distance and hissed from across the room. Zephyr never once challenged her. He’s always been the most respectful boy, rolling onto his back whenever there’s even a hint of a standoff. He’s just happy. You can see how grateful he is. He knows he’s safe now.

    From the start, Zephyr was a snuggler. He’s always needed to be close—pressed against me, on my lap, sometimes right in my face like I might disappear if he’s not touching me. He’s been through so much in his short little year of life, and I think that’s why he clings so tight—he knows what it’s like to be alone. For the first couple of weeks, he was completely silent. Then one night, he nearly scared me half to death. His meow isn’t normal; it sounds like he’s saying “Ow!” in this long, drawn-out, whiny tone. Sometimes he even starts with “Mama!” first, like he’s calling for me to hear what he has to say. I’ve been told that’s a Siamese thing—and there is an intact male Siamese who lives across the street who could potentially be his father. Maybe that’s where he gets his flair for conversation. Once he settled in, the zoomies started. Not little bursts, either—full-blown, furniture-rattling, hallway-thundering zoomies. Zazu and Zuri just step aside and watch the show. It’s hilarious. No warning. He just screams then takes off.

    These days, Zephyr’s thriving. He’s bigger than Zazu now—long, tall, solid, with a growing little belly that swings side to side when he runs. He looks like a sleek black panther who discovered the joy of snacks. He’s also a very good helper. Every time I get food ready for the porch crew (new batch of strays that found me), he’s right there beside me, supervising. I’ll grab the plate and head for the food tub, and he trots over to inspect my work, sneaking a nibble like he’s making sure it’s good enough for everyone outside. He also takes his guard duties seriously—if someone new shows up on the porch or a delivery hits the door, he lets me know with a warning hiss.

    Inside, he’s exactly where he belongs. He and Zazu wrestle and chase each other through the house, then curl up nearby like brothers who’ve always known each other. Zuri’s still cautious, but she’s come a long way—no more hissing standoffs, just quiet coexistence (and the occasional short hiss when she’s startled). Most nights, Zephyr ends up in my lap while I’m in my recliner, stretched across me like he’s home—which, finally, he is.

    Every time I look at him, I still see that scrappy little porch cat he used to be. The memory never really leaves—it just sits quietly next to the gratitude. He hasn’t forgotten either. You can feel it in the way he presses close, in the way he looks at me before settling into my lap. Every day, he reminds me that rescue goes both ways.

  • Zuri: My Elusive Queen

    The cautious beauty who taught me patience and trust.

    Every cat has a story, and Zuri’s is one of courage. I brought her home in April of 2021 because I thought my boy Zazu needed a friend. He was nearing a year old, and I hoped a companion would be good for him.

    When I went into the shelter cat room, there were so many precious cats and kittens. But way in the back, in a cage, was a tiny, terrified cat, huddled up with pure horror in her eyes. The staff told me animal control had picked her up along with a group of strays. At first, they thought she was feral, but later decided she wasn’t. I asked to hold her. She didn’t fight, but she shook all over and tucked her face into my arm like she was trying to calm herself down. I knew instantly: this was the one. Her shelter name was “Peach,” but she became my Zuri. They said she was two years old, though she was so small I could hardly believe it.

    I brought her home and set her up in Jarod’s room. She stayed hidden constantly, too scared to trust me. Eventually, I let Zazu in to meet her. After the usual hissing, they became inseparable. Zuri adores him, and their bond runs deep. They snuggle, bathe each other, and play together—a connection I don’t think either of them will ever share with another cat.

    Zuri has always been hard to touch. In four years, I’ve only held her a couple of times—once when she had something dangerous in her mouth and I had to trap her in the bathroom, and another when she got sick and had to go to the vet. Each time, though, when I finally caught her, she melted in my arms. She didn’t fight me; she just let me hold her as if she remembered, deep down, that she could trust me.

    Most of the time, Zuri prefers to stay at a distance. She loves her window perch behind my recliner, hidden behind the curtain, where she can watch in peace. Sometimes I sneak in a quick pet before she realizes, and then she darts away. But little by little, she has grown braver. Since Zephyr joined our home, she seems to see me as the safer option, and she’ll come closer than she used to.

    Now, with Zeus waiting to join the household, I think Zuri will be the deciding factor. She still hisses at Zephyr if he rushes her, but she doesn’t fight him—and he respects her as the boss. I’m hoping she’ll accept Zeus, maybe even mother him a little, because he’s such a baby at heart.

    Zuri is about six years old now. She may never be a cuddly lap cat, but she’s my elusive queen, my cautious, beautiful girl. I love her so much, exactly as she is.

    Thanks for reading Zuri’s story. Do you have an elusive queen (or king) in your life? I’d love to hear about them in the comments.

  • Zazu – My First Floofy Shadow

    The one who saved me.

    I had just lost my dog Nala, my whole world, only two months before. Her death shattered me, and I truly thought I’d never heal.

    Then one night, my son walked through the door, unzipped his jacket, and whispered, “Mom, do you want him?” Out peeked a tiny ball of black fluff—rescued from a thorn bush. My heart cracked wide open.

    A few days later, the vet told me he was about seven weeks. Counting backwards, that meant he could have been born on my birthday. So now, we share a birthday—another bond that makes him even more my heart.

    We named him Zazu, to keep the Lion King theme alive—Nala (my dog), Simba (my son’s cat), and now Zazu. From that first night, he curled on my chest and licked my chin like he was stitching me back together.

    Now he’s my 14-pound chonk, full of fluff and love, still my shadow, still my heart.