Consoles

Labor Day Weekend, 2025—I had a friend flying in for a visit. He knew I had kitten clinic in the morning, but he had work to do, so his plan was to hunker down at a coffee shop while my house became a temporary kitten zoo. No problem.

Then, the day before his arrival, disaster—I mean opportunity—struck: I was asked if I could take in some new kittens. A picture arrived: six feral fluffballs, eyes wide and tiny claws ready. The question? “How many do you want?”

They say there are no stupid questions… but this one might actually qualify. Of course I wanted the full six-pack.

These kittens were part of a stray colony scheduled to be trapped the next morning and brought in for intake during clinic. The only problem: apparently no one told the kittens. They spent most of the day evading capture like tiny ninja fugitives. By the end, only five were finally trapped and delivered to my house late that evening. 

I’d never done a solo intake before, so naturally, I was texting pictures to the other mentors for advice on treating their various ailments. Meanwhile, all five kittens cringed in the back of their travel crate, hissing and spitting like tiny dragons. But the moment I picked them up… silence. Not a scratch or a bite. They froze, letting me examine, vaccinate, and microchip them as if saying, “Fine. Do your thing, human. We will judge you later.”

After we all survived the initial trauma—specifically, during the warm compress treatment for the eye, when that wonky eyeball launched a high-velocity puss attack straight at my face (I was not prepared for this level of kitten assault)—I decided it was time to escalate: bath and a turn in the kitten dryer.

The entire dirty lot was… less than thrilled. Their faces screamed, “We did not sign up for this! Street life was better!” Every shake, hiss, and leap was a reminder that, yes, these tiny humans of the feral world had zero patience for domestic hygiene.  Still, they were worn out from all the peril and eventually gave up and sat in a defeated kitten heap.

That night, my friend and I camped out in the kitten room, catching up while simultaneously playing a high-stakes game of “catch the feral floof.” Whoever couldn’t scramble away fast enough got the special honor of being tempted with treats and a demonstration of how nice, gentle, loving hands might feel—if they could be persuaded to believe such things existed.

Of course, they maintained their signature frozen-submission pose, staring at me like, “Nice hands? Lies. All lies.” Handheld treats? Absolutely refused. But a few braved the ultimate compromise: eating from a bowl while in my lap. Small victories, yes—but in kitten-world terms, practically a heroic conquest. Progress, one tentative bite at a time.

The next morning, I had to temporarily abandon the kittens—my friend was partly in town for an annual Labor Day art event, and real life, alas, called. But just as I was getting settled, we got word: the elusive sixth kitten had been caught nearby, not far from the park. Naturally, we made plans to pick him up before heading home.

Surprise twist: this new addition was actually cleaner than his siblings. I briefly considered skipping the bath—until we got home and discovered that one of his siblings had rolled in the litterbox and enthusiastically spread the contents everywhere. Yes, everywhere.

So… another round of baths for the entire crew. You can imagine how thrilled they were. Let’s just say my standing in the kitten hierarchy officially plummeted to “traitor human.”

With all six kittens finally clean(ish) and back together, I decided it was time for another round of treat training. This time I came armed with a chicken filet. I tore off a tiny strip and offered it like a peace treaty.

The reaction? Utter confusion. Apparently, “how to chicken” is not a skill kittens are born with. So I went for the hands-on approach—literally. I gently pried open a tiny mouth and placed a sliver of chicken on the tongue. The kitten’s eyes went wide… and then they inhaled it like a vending machine devouring your last dollar.

That broke the ice.

The little girl was the boldest, clambering into my lap and then up my chest in hot pursuit of more chicken. The big boy and the runt were far more cautious—cowering in the back, inching forward, panicking, retreating, and then finally snatching the morsels and bolting like tiny bandits.

But soon enough, all six were sold on the chicken and tolerated a few pets while they filled their miniature bellies. My friend and I spent a lot of time in the kitten room that evening, moving slowly—our version of “we won’t startle you… probably”—offering treats, and pretending not to watch as they explored when they thought we weren’t looking.

The first kitten I ever pulled out—the one who attacked me with her erupting eyeball—and the last kitten to be trapped both had those mesmerizing swirly tabby markings. While we were tossing around theme ideas, my husband pointed out that the old Sega logo had a swirl. Perfect.

So the first girl became Sega Dreamcast—with her slightly more golden tones—and the latecomer with silver swirls and white socks became Sega Saturn.

The other four were all classic brown tabbies with no easily distinguishable markings. The big guy had the most ridiculously cute face—something about his proportions just tugged at my heartstrings. Naturally, he became PlayStation, since that’s the main console in our house.

The tiniest of the bunch—the runt—was impossibly cute, so we went retro and named him Atari Jaguar. (We mostly call him Atari now, but “Jaguar” just felt like the right kind of adorable.)

The middle two… well, they looked so identical to me that I had to put little collars on them to tell them apart. They also shared the same dramatic habit: wandering off by themselves, getting “lost,” and then SCREAMING at the top of their lungs for rescue—while simultaneously cowering in terror when I actually showed up to save them.

They became Xbox One and Nintendo Wii—and yes, for at least a week no one in the house could say “Wii” without drawing it out in a high-pitched, gleeful “wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”

The Segas were the first to abandon their feral ways, greeting me eagerly at the kennel door as if ready to hit “Start” on a whole new game. The twin tabbies followed their swirly siblings’ lead, venturing out once they were convinced the coast was clear.

PlayStation and Atari Jaguar, however, stuck to their personal strategy: dive for the back of the kennel like it was their save point and wait me out. I’d pretend to busy myself elsewhere until they cautiously emerged, convinced they had outsmarted me.

Dreamcast was a climber from the very beginning. If it could be scaled, she was halfway up it before I could say “Get down.” I spent a lot of time picking things up off the floor after she gleefully knocked them down. Saturn, on the other hand, was more of an in-things climber. He was particularly fascinated by the glass vase I use for daily kitten weigh-ins—apparently it was the ultimate hideout.

Once out of the kennel, all six would launch into immediate zoomie mode, zipping frantically around any part of the room I wasn’t in. But when they started to wind down, there was one sound that could instantly summon them all: the unmistakable snick-thwack of a metal lunchbox latch being unlocked.

That lunchbox, brimming with kitten treats, was the great unifier. The Segas would sprint toward me at the sound alone, crying with enthusiasm—and sometimes standing on the lid itself in their eagerness, slowing down the process while complaining loudly about the unacceptable delay.

The twins were more cautious, hanging back until the treat was actually visible before joining the melee. For the first week, PlayStation and Atari waited in the wings, sneaking in only when the others had me fully distracted.

These days, PlayStation remains the patient one—though far less stealthy—while Atari has completed his evolution into a full-fledged Treat Goblin™.

Once the treats were gone, the kittens collectively shut down—a neat little row of tiny consoles on standby mode.

Those photos might look like the same picture to anyone else, but trust me—picking my favorite six shots of that perfect kitten line-up was an act of willpower. I… may have taken a few (hundred) more.

We made it through our two-week quarantine and finally opened the door to the rest of the feline family. Many of my resident cats couldn’t care less about foster kittens, but my calico diva, Katsu Kurry, had other plans. She’s obsessed with the window in the kitten room and with a few prime spots on the cat wall.

Katsu likes to pretend she doesn’t notice the kittens, casually swishing her tail within reach as if it’s just… happening to be there. The moment a kitten pounces, she looks down her nose at them as though they’re vermin—while continuing to flick her tail just enough to keep them engaged. If you get close enough, you’ll hear the soft rumble of her under-the-breath happy purr, like she’s not about to admit she’s enjoying herself.

My youngest housecat, Nimbus, a former foster himself and now a year old, has blossomed into the best foster-dad cat. He loves kittens. And then there’s Apache, my holdover foster from the previous litter, who had to stick around a little longer for a special spay surgery. She didn’t understand why she was banished from the kitten room for two whole weeks and was eager to reclaim her spot as soon as the quarantine ended.

I firmly believe kittens learn a lot by observing other cats. Watching how much Katsu, Nimbus, and Apache sought out my attention—happily climbing into my lap for hugs and kisses—showed the consoles that I was safe and worth trusting.

As always, the Segas were the first to flip the feral-to-friendly switch. Sega Saturn started snoozing belly-up, broadcasting his trust loud and clear. Sega Dreamcast began to perk up whenever I called her name. Soon the twins followed their lead, stopping the avoidance routine and choosing to nap or play next to me.

Atari decided that my lap was the ultimate sleep station and began curling up on me whenever he needed a recharge. PlayStation still wasn’t fully sold on me, but he was absolutely smitten with the rest of the household cats. Whenever one of them entered the room, he’d follow like a star-struck fanboy, rubbing up against them and begging to be groomed.

We hit a minor setback after their second vaccination.

PlayStation, my formerly big, handsome boy, suddenly lost an alarming amount of weight—dropping from first place in size to not-even-second.

I had to separate him from the group whenever I wasn’t right there to keep an eye on his food intake and, well… his outtake. I tried everything: different wet foods, treats, hand-feeding. He ate just enough to keep going, but not enough to thrive.

It broke my heart to have to stick him with needles twice a day to give subcutaneous fluids and anti-nausea meds—especially since he was one of the more timid kittens to begin with. But I did it, snuggled in a little “magic towel burrito” wrap to keep him still, and hoped he’d forgive me someday.

I updated my mentor daily—sometimes multiple times a day—as we watched his weight fluctuate and waited for some sign that his digestive system was, in fact, functioning. When nothing changed, we booked a last-minute appointment right before the clinic closed for x-rays, suspecting some kind of blockage.

That night, while we were still waiting for the radiologist’s report, PlayStation finally started gaining weight. The next day, the vet found no obstruction, just a hint that he’d been nibbling on his litter. We switched him over to walnut-based litter—safe if accidentally ingested—and crossed our fingers.

Slowly, he began eating better, putting on weight, and—finally—after a day and a half, he left us a very welcome little gift in his litterbox. It was the first solid proof that things were working as intended.

I was finally able to reunite him with his siblings, relieved and grateful that my shy little console had made it through.

(Pictured below: the magic towel burrito we used for his fluids, his look of utter betrayal at the vet’s office, and his siblings gleefully finishing his leftover recovery food during supervised visits.)

While all six consoles still do their little scurry-and-hide routine whenever new people visit, they pop back out faster each time I convince a friend to spend some time in the kitten room.

PlayStation is always the last to appear, but he’s stolen the show — two out of the three visitors so far have fallen in love with that same hard-to-describe cuteness in his face, along with the gentle sweetness he shows once he finally decides you’re trustworthy.

Today marked a milestone: for the first time, I found PlayStation sleeping belly-up, and he didn’t even flinch when I reached out to rub those perfect little spotted belly patches.

The four biggest consoles are already fixed, and the other two will be joining the club next week.

That means this entire quirky, lovable set will soon be ready to load into a new home and press ‘Start’ on their next adventure.

Whether you’re looking for a bold zoomie champion, a lap-warming snuggle bug, or a gentle late-bloomer with a heart-meltingly sweet face, there’s a perfect little console here waiting to upgrade your home entertainment system.!