Ink Blots

I fell in love with yet another foster kitten the moment our medical lead began posting videos to the foster Facebook page. The videos were meant to educate us on the signs of bromethalin (rat) poisoning—but all I saw was the fierce little spirit shining out of the eyes of one of the cutest kittens I’d ever seen. I kept nudging her to keep us updated, and every new video felt like a tiny victory.

Tragically, all of her siblings passed, but this sole survivor clearly wasn’t interested in following that plan. I eventually messaged our medical lead directly and asked if she’d send me all the videos—every single one—so I could make a social media video (complete with QR code) for our fundraising calendar. She did, and I spent hours assembling it, mostly because I possess enthusiasm but absolutely no video-editing skills.

Just when I thought I was almost finished, she messaged me again with an update: the beautiful, still-unnamed kitten (my husband had dubbed her Ivy, as in Poison Ivy) had ringworm. To keep her company, her foster mom found three other kittens the same age—also with ringworm—because apparently chaos loves company.

The introduction video sealed my fate. The former singleton immediately began rolling over her stunned new roommates in pure delight, while they attempted to process their new reality: new place, new food, new meds, new beds… and one spastic little gremlin enthusiastically gnawing on their ears.

What’s a few more hours of video editing if it means adding a few precious seconds of kitten chaos? I kept begging for more footage, but instead of more videos, the foster asked me for ringworm medication (I’m the rescue’s main supply hub). I jokingly replied, “You don’t get medication—you just bring them to me. Thanks!”

Her response: “Don’t tempt me. I already have ringworm on my neck, and the skin on my hands is about to peel off from washing them too much.”

I continued to joke about it for the next few days… until life intervened. I ended up needing knee surgery with less than a week’s notice and was suddenly juggling recovery, pain, and an unexpected amount of time at home. What started as a running joke slowly turned into an actual plan.  Despite the surgical pain, I was far more mobile than expected—and with nearly a month of work restrictions, the timing oddly made sense. So the joke became reality, and the four kittens (who were named before they arrived) officially showed up at my house.

We set their kennels on the floor of my kitten room and opened the top so they could take in their new digs. The original kitten—now officially named Spot (possibly for the bald spot on her head? I forgot to ask what inspired the names)—immediately popped up like a jack-in-the-box, front paws flung overhead in pure joy.

Her new roommates had… very different feelings. Speckle (orange and white), Smudge (gray and white), and Sprinkle (calico) attempted to cower in the back of the kennel and become invisible. This plan worked for exactly two of them. Poor Smudge, whose body was approximately 90% healthy kitten belly, simply did not possess the geometry required for stealth.

After filling me in on their names and medication schedule, their foster headed out and left me to love on Spot and coax the others out of hiding. This involved wearing a very specific category of clothing reserved exclusively for the kitten room—because changing from ringworm-contaminated clothes into “safe-to-be-around-my-own-pets” clothes every time I needed to pee was already challenging enough with a freshly post-surgery knee. Inconvenient? Yes. Worth it? Obviously.

Speckle was easy. He immediately fell for my first and most powerful foster tool: the cream Churu. Sprinkle was more cautious, but after watching her siblings survive, she eventually followed their lead and enjoyed the treat—along with some tentative pets.

Smudge, however, was unmoved. Despite a belly that strongly suggested food motivation, he resisted every treat- and toy-based charm I attempted. When gently extracted from hiding, he’d submit in frozen terror, accept treats under protest, and then retreat to the nearest dark corner at the first opportunity.

Every foster has their own style. Some raises kittens with impeccable manners and grace—polite little souls who stay off counters and gently tap or meow for attention. I, personally, lean into the chaos kitten philosophy. My body is perpetually covered in scratch marks because I derive some strange joy from being used as a climbing structure and having kittens perch on my head like it’s a lookout tower.

As a result, kittens from my house tend to be very well socialized (read: needy) and extremely comfortable being handled (clingy). Since they’ll eventually move into small kennels at PetSmart for adoption events, we do ask fosters to kennel-train their kittens—it’s hard to find a home for a kitten who is completely unhinged at the adoption center. This was a challenge for me at first, as I prefer a free-range cat, but volunteering at the adoption center taught me just how important that training really is.

I eventually found a compromise: the kittens are kenneled during the day while I’m at work or whenever I’m out of the kitten room, and enjoy more freedom when I’m in there with them. My computer lives in the kitten room now, so this is where I blog, do rescue data entry in my “free time,” and—more often than not—sleep when I have fosters. It lets me spend time with my husband and my own pets after work, then devote my evenings and nights to kitten socialization. It works well, and I’ve become known for raising bold, social, snuggly kittens.

So I went to bed that night a little sad about Smudge’s resistance—but confident I’d win him over eventually.

My wait was… significantly shorter than expected.

I woke around 4 a.m. feeling like an elephant was crushing my chest. Still half asleep, I opened my eyes to find Smudge sitting squarely on me, face-to-face, gazing down with complete trust and adoration. I couldn’t get a photo—it was dark, it was 4 a.m., and I was emotionally unprepared—but he was still there when I woke up later, looking at me with the same soulful eyes.

And just like that, I was sunk.

After that first night, Spot, Speckle, and Smudge became my constant companions, while Sprinkle stayed a little more cautious. She didn’t exactly run from me, but she only really approached if I was actively handing out treats.

Every evening, I’d sit down with a fishbowl on the scale to weigh the kittens—a perfect excuse for quality bonding time. I quickly learned to always do Spot last. She adored the fishbowl, twirling around inside it, chasing her tail or things only she could see. Her littermates would circle it, clearly questioning if she somehow thought she was a fish. Occasionally, a few of the others would try hanging out in the bowl when Spot wasn’t monopolizing it, curious about her fascination—but they always got bored much more quickly.

From the very beginning, Smudge barely fit in the fishbowl. This chunky little monkey always weighed more than his littermates—and that gap just keeps widening… as fast as his belly expands. Which is weird, because he really doesn’t know how to eat.

At treat time, while Speckle stands on everyone else’s head to snatch snacks out of their mouths and the others scramble for the one spot Speckle isn’t occupying, Smudge flits along the edges. When I present a treat by hand, he gets excited and swats wildly at the air—sometimes under, sometimes over, but almost never on the treat. He’ll move his head back and forth, sniffing and searching for it, but rarely finds it even when it’s carefully placed directly in front of him. Oh no—he’ll promptly move to where the treat was ten seconds ago, continuing the hunt. The only way he reliably gets the treat? Toss it on the ground right in front of him.

Mealtime is just as chaotic. Sprinkle darts in to be first, Speckle wrestles her for the dish, and Spot casually grazes as she wanders by, nibbling at will. And Smudge? He somehow manages to stealth eat. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he gains weight consistently—proving once again that this kitten is secretly a master of the snack arts.

When I bragged that I “wasn’t afraid of ringworm,” it was based on previous experience—which, in hindsight, means I had simply been very lucky. These four arrived having clearly skipped the fur-packing portion of kitten assembly: large bald patches, a few sores, and an impressive amount of flakiness.

My first ringworm experience predated oral medication, meaning weeks of intense sanitizing and repeated medicated baths. Worse still, those kittens arrived symptom-free, so we didn’t realize they had ringworm until weeks later—well past quarantine—after they’d already interacted with all my pets. At the time, I had nine cats and two very fluffy dogs. Add four active foster kittens, and suddenly you’re bathing fifteen animals twice a week. One of the cats should honestly have been reclassified as a demon. We ordered raptor gloves just to survive bath time with minimal limb loss.

In contrast, these kittens were blessed with modern medicine. They received a shot of oral medication they seemed to genuinely enjoy, plus topical treatments as needed. I added a few medicated baths just to be safe, and even used a medicated shampoo myself a few times a week. The transformation was remarkable—this once scraggly, bald-patched crew quickly turned into sleek, glossy kittens, as if they’d never known hardship at all.

A daily dose of medication being squirted into her mouth—no matter how tasty—probably didn’t help Sprinkle warm up quickly. I tried to balance that with a wide variety of treats, and I also firmly believe that cats are incredibly observant and learn from each other fast.

Spot, the most confident of the group, became my cuddle buddy almost immediately and soon started nursing on my blankets. Speckle, our resident mimic, picked up the habit right away—nearly always attempting to nurse in the exact spot Spot had chosen. Smudge eventually joined in too, and for the first week the three of them settled in with me every night, nursing contentedly.

Sprinkle, meanwhile, usually stationed herself in the chair next to the bed: close enough to monitor snack-related activity, but far enough to maintain personal space. Then, almost exactly one week after they arrived, something shifted. While I was cleaning the litterbox, Sprinkle decided I was trustworthy and plopped herself directly into my lap. I was trapped on the floor for nearly an hour as she purred, rolled around, and gazed at me lovingly. My phone was across the room—because who plans photo ops when one hand is holding a litter scoop and the other is dealing with a box used by four kittens?

From that moment on, Sprinkle fully joined the nursing parties, leaving wet spots on my blanket and love in my heart. She’s now almost always the first to hop into my lap when I let them out of their kennel. That same day, she also decided my house was a safe place that required thorough exploration. She began climbing everything—including an over-the-door storage bin that no other litter had ever touched, where I store all my kitten costumes. Yes, plural. Yes, it requires an entire hanging bin. And yes—Sprinkle scaled it, dumped costumes all over the floor.  Within an hour Speckle had joined her, of course.  But the others joined her over the next week and now I can't keep them out of my once carefully sorted costume bins. 

Quarantine was hard. The kittens were isolated all day, and I didn’t want them alone all night—but I also have my own pets who deserve attention. I suppose I should also mention my husband… and my father, who lives with us now. It’s a full house.

Nimbus, my youngest resident cat, is an extremely enthusiastic foster dad. He loves kittens and hates being separated from me. My little prince—who normally acts like jumping into my lap is an impossible feat requiring my full assistance—can somehow launch himself clean over the six-foot gate to the kitten room if I’m on the other side ignoring his tragic cries.

To manage this, we set up a double-gate system so Nimbus could come into the room and observe us through clear plastic panels. At first, the sound of his landing sent all four kittens scattering—either diving for cover or puffing up to look very fierce. But it didn’t take long for them to adjust to his frequent “visits,” and soon they were batting at him and trying to play through the panels.

My perfect baby prince, Nimbus, was remarkably respectful about staying on his side of the panels. If he so much as considered jumping, all I had to do was say his name in my scolding tone and he’d immediately turn around and lounge in the cat wheel like, “Just watching you, Mom.”

The kittens, however, are completely tone-deaf. They quickly began discovering increasingly sneaky ways to escape confinement, regardless of how much I yelled. If I stayed in the room, I could usually keep them contained with strategic toy deployment. But the moment I stepped out—to use the bathroom or grab water—they expressed their displeasure at the temporary separation by scaling, squeezing, or otherwise crossing whatever barrier they could.

Eventually, I admitted defeat and abandoned the plastic panels entirely.

We were all relieved when the kittens were officially cleared of ringworm and Nimbus could finally be invited in to meet them. The boys—Smudge and Speckle—were instantly enthralled. Spot, however… I suspect some brain cells may have leaked out through her bald spot during recovery.

On the first day, I picked Spot up and placed her directly on Nimbus’s belly. She purred, rolled onto her back, and wiggled around happily for quite some time before finally turning her head far enough to notice that his face was very close to hers. She hissed. Then purred. Then hissed again. Then returned to playful rolling, apparently forgetting her surroundings entirely. A few minutes later, she caught Nimbus out of the corner of her eye and issued a few more hisses for good measure.

I reassured her that she was absolutely terrifying and that Nimbus was clearly cowed into submission and would never dare offend her. Nimbus ruined the moment by yawning lazily. Spot, meanwhile, had once again forgotten he existed—despite still being nestled into his belly and loosely hugged by his arms.

Sprinkle, true to form, observed all of this from a safe distance for several days before deciding Nimbus was acceptable and gradually stopped flinching when he came near.

Their long quarantine also meant far less human interaction than my fosters usually get. While my husband and I don’t have any two-legged kids, we do have a steady stream of kitten-loving friends, and we host kitten clinic at our house. It’s not unusual for fosters—or their kids—to dash up to the kitten room during clinic just to say hello.

Their first human visitor arrived a few days after two of the kittens had surgery. All four bolted the moment she walked in. Sprinkle poofed up like a decorative Halloween cat that had been startled into full display mode.

But the visitor sat down and started chatting, and Spot’s curiosity quickly outweighed her caution. When she wasn’t immediately devoured, Speckle followed suit. Within minutes, Spot climbed up behind the stranger’s neck, curled herself into place, and promptly fell asleep—clearly deciding this human was acceptable and had been properly claimed.

Smudge and Sprinkle were originally scheduled to head to PetSmart, but no amount of confinement—or medication—could convince Sprinkle to take it easy. I’m fairly convinced the post-surgery meds the vets use these days make kittens feel really good, because a surprising number of kittens have been coming home absolutely turbo-charged. While the lethargy we used to see was more alarming, they did seem to heal more smoothly back then. Now, almost every girl develops some swelling at the surgery site—and Sprinkle’s was the largest I’ve ever seen.

Since she needed to be held back during recovery (and we never like to send kittens to PetSmart alone), all four kittens stayed with me a bit longer—including during a fundraising event at a local pizza place.

Speckle surprised me by being the most relaxed in the noisy, crowded environment, comfortable with the strangers and chaos as long as I was nearby.  Spot wanted out of her kennel every time I approached, but she felt safest with experienced hands—either snuggled securely in my arms while others pet her, or when I helped place her into someone else’s (which meant I couldn't get pictures of her at the event; my hands were always full when we had her out of the kennel). Smudge and Sprinkle preferred to stay tucked into the back of the kennel and not come out at all, but they handled the noise and bustle well, sleeping comfortably while they waited for it all to be over.  Nimbus always goes to events with me and is never fazed the crowds. 

The Ink Blots are now fully fixed, in recovery, and heading toward adoption soon—their masterpiece nearly complete. Each one has left their mark on my home (and my heart), and they’re ready to add a little abstract chaos to someone else’s canvas.

All four kittens share one important trait: they are enthusiastic comfort-nursers. Soft blankets, plushies, fleece, and sherpa clothing are all fair game. Their future families should be comfortable with a little drool and a lot of love—this is not a germaphobe-friendly quartet.

Spot, our original splash of ink, is currently in her Strawberry Era after deciding her surgery site deserved a bit too much attention. She’s rocking a soft, strawberry-shaped cone with confidence and would like everyone to know she is both very brave and very fashionable. Her concept of personal space is-it's all her personal space. She loves to be under your chin or close to your face, regardless of what you're doing and whether or not you're busy.

Sprinkle, in particular, will thrive in a home that embraces vertical space and creative exploration. A tall cat tree, wall shelves, and a relaxed attitude toward fragile display items will go a long way. She is an artist who prefers her mediums three-dimensional and occasionally gravity-defying.  A patient home that gives her the space to feel comfortable will get rewarded with her unconditional love.

Speckle would do best with a feline companion—ideally a well-behaved one. He’s a talented mimic who takes behavioral cues from other cats, so a confident, polite role model will help him continue to thrive. Of course, if you're hoping to add more chaos in your world, he'll entertain you with his antics if you pair him with a cat full of purr-sonality.

And Smudge… well, Smudge's soul searching looks turn me into mush. He already has a potential adoption meet-up scheduled tomorrow, and while my heart is absolutely not ready, I couldn’t be happier to see his story continue on a new canvas.

Together, Spot, Speckle, Smudge, and Sprinkle are the kind of happy little accidents that make life richer—bold, affectionate, and unapologetically messy in the best possible way.