Car Hoppers

There are times in rescue when everything feels… full.  Not just physically full—but emotionally, logistically, capacity-level full.

At the time, both the rescue and I were there. My “Patience Pack” were making progress, but still needed time, structure, and a whole lot of support to feel safe. Meanwhile, the rescue had hit the point no one likes to admit out loud—we were turning away new intake requests simply because we didn’t have anywhere for them to go.

Even our kitten wellness clinics—hosted out of my house—were packed. Every appointment slot filled with fosters rotating in and out, crates in hand, kittens in tow.

On clinic days, we leave the front door unlocked with a sign telling fosters to let themselves in (with the very important instruction not to let any of the resident cats escape). At this point, it’s become something of a neighborhood spectacle. Every three weeks, there’s a steady parade of people carrying in crates… followed shortly after by a mildly concerned FedEx driver delivering what can only be described as a suspicious amount of supplies.

In short: it is not a secret in the neighborhood that this is a cat house. But, I didn't know how prolific this knowledge was spread.

Two different fosters left my house and drove home—about 20 to 30 minutes away, in completely opposite directions.

And then the texts started.  Two different pictures, two slightly different discovery story, but the same question:
“WHAT DO I DO?!”

Most of the clinic volunteers are also part of the intake team—which means “wearing many hats” is less a metaphor and more a job requirement.

So naturally, the brainstorming started immediately.

What do we do with two surprise kittens who appeared out of nowhere?  Were they within our intake age range? Did we even have space? Should we… responsibly say no?

There were a lot of very valid, very logical questions being asked.

And then there was me.

“I want them.”

My brain had concerns. Logistics. Capacity. Timing.

My heart had already made a decision:  They came to us looking for help.

Upstairs, my Patience Pack still needed consistency, routine, and their safe little world to stay intact. But outside, in the catio, we had a mostly empty kennel. We had tried to use it as a recovery space for one of my house cats, but she had very strong opinions about confinement (all negative), so it had been sitting unused.

It wasn’t perfect.  But it was something.  The mentors paused… and then just as quickly pivoted.

“Bring them back.”

What followed was about thirty minutes of pure, coordinated chaos.

The kennel was scrubbed and sanitized.

Litter boxes appeared.  Food, water, blankets, toys—anything to make it feel safe, warm, and intentional instead of “you live here now, surprise.”

All of this happening in between vaccine appointments, with fosters still coming in and out, completely unaware that an emergency intake operation was unfolding in the background.

And somehow… we pulled it off.

By the time clinic wrapped up, we had officially completed an intake for two completely unexpected kittens.

Honestly, they were the easiest kittens I’ve ever named.

They didn’t even make it back to my house before it was decided: Stowaway (black)…and Hitchhiker (white and black cow).

Of course, we immediately started trying to solve the mystery.

Where did they come from?  Were they siblings? Was this a coincidence… or had the Cat Distribution System escalated to multi-unit deployment?

Several volunteers ran outside to canvass the neighborhood—checking nearby streets, knocking banging on car hoods in case any additional passengers had been left behind.

They were both arrivved covered in grime, the same weight, and nearly identical in size and build. It felt less like coincidence and more like a matched set—so we housed them together and hoped for the best.

Stowaway arrived first.  He looked a little shell-shocked from his unexpected round trip (albeit with a significant upgrade in travel accommodations). Unfortunately for him, his arrival was immediately followed by… intake.

A pill.  A vaccine. A suspiciously stinky substance applied to the back of his neck. And finally—the ultimate betrayal: A needle approximately the size of a small harpoon delivering something extremely foreign (a microchip) into his tiny body.

He processed this series of events by climbing directly into the litter box and questioning all of his life choices.

Hitchhiker, on the other hand, was largely unbothered.

He greeted Stowaway with about ten seconds of very serious growling—which initially seemed concerning… until I later realized this is simply how he communicates with the world. He growls when he eats. He growls when he plays. He may, at some point, growl at the concept of existence itself.

After his brief announcement, he settled in with an expectant expression, as if to say:

“Alright. What’s next?”

The “next” turned out to be… Mongo.

My housecat Mongo became instantly, completely, and inexplicably infatuated.

He stationed himself outside the kennel like a devoted sentry, watching their every move, desperate to make contact—as if he weren’t already surrounded by his own built-in social network of fur siblings and overly attentive humans.

It did not matter. These were new kittens.  And therefore… superior.

He followed them along the edge of the enclosure, chirping, flopping, and attempting to will himself through solid barriers using the sheer force of friendship. When that failed, he simply stared—completely enraptured and deeply confused by the concept of “no access.”

And then, the unthinkable happened.  For the first time in his life with us…  Mongo refused treats.  Not even his favorites could lure him away. No bribes, no bargaining, no “just come over here for one second.” Nothing.

The kittens had achieved what no human ever could.  They had broken Mongo.

The next several days were… a balancing act.

I visited Stowaway and Hitchhiker as often as I could, squeezing in time between work and taking care of my dad. He was technically “home,” but after his recent hospitalization, home had turned into a revolving door of nurses, therapists, and specialists—each one leaving behind instructions, exercises, and “just a few minutes a day” assignments that somehow stretched into an hour or more.

Getting through even the shortest OT and PT routines could take over an hour.

The kittens, meanwhile, were always happy to see me. And I felt like I was never there long enough.  

I kept reminding myself this was temporary. My Patience Pack were getting ready for adoption—we had a plan. A careful, well-timed, responsible plan.

But if you’ve read about the Patience Pack before, you already know:  They have never met a plan they couldn’t jinx.  Less than a week after the Car Adventure Kittens arrived, my dad was back in the ER.

We spent 19 hours in the waiting room.  Every so often, they’d call him back for vitals or bloodwork, but mostly we waited—trying to stay awake, trying to stay alert, surrounded by the kind of restless, unpredictable energy that only exists in an ER at 2am.

At one point, a man laid out on the floor yelling for attention. And my dad—who has never had a filter, even before dementia—told him to shut up.  The man responded with a casual threat, delivered without even bothering to look up.  It didn’t feel immediately dangerous… but it was enough.  I stayed alert until they finally got my dad into a bed around 7am. We had a temporary stay in one room before we made it up to his actual hospital room.  By the time we made it through consults and heard he’d be admitted overnight, there wasn’t time to rest. It was time to move.

I rushed home, gathered the Patience Pack, and got them to PetSmart—hoping this would be the start of their next chapter.

Before I left, I cleaned out their kitten room kennel and drenched everything in rescue sanitizer, letting it soak—killing germs, resetting the space.  

I had been awake for over 40 hours.  But I still had two more kittens waiting. I brought Stowaway and Hitchhiker upstairs to the kitten room.  Showed them their new setup—litter box, food, water.  And then I fell face-first into bed.  When I woke up, they were there. Both of them.  Curled up between my legs like they had always belonged.

I hadn’t had much time with them yet—not really. But they had decided to seek me out from the beginning and were willing to forgive my lack of attention, especially when my apologies came with treats.  

Though both of them are well-adjusted, friendly, and adaptable, their personalities are already starting to show in very distinct ways.

Stowaway has a strong “I will just settle here” energy, which I love, even if "here" is my face. He seeks me out for cuddles, quietly tracks my movements through the room, and without fail will steal my chair the moment I stand up—even if I’ve only stepped away for a second. If there is a warm spot I once occupied, he considers it reassigned.

Hitchhiker, on the other hand, is always in motion. He’s a little explorer, constantly looking for the next thing to investigate or the next game to start. He squeaks for attention, then immediately redirects that energy into toys, growling dramatically at anything he decides is worth wrestling—including the concept of stillness itself.

They've been with me just over 2 weeks and are already scheduled for surgery tomorrow. Mongo is thrilled they cleared quarantine easily and is quite happy to play with them. Unless there are any complications with surgery, they'll be cleared for departure and cruising toward their forever homes in just over a week.”