Patience Pack

I’m a planner. I can be flexible—and I used to adjust really well under pressure. These days, I can still adjust… just maybe not well or gracefully (aging is rude like that, lol). But overall, I like to think through a problem, task, or event ahead of time and have at least a general idea of what I’m walking into. Having a plan makes me feel calmer.

Kittens, however, are chaos.

They see every plan as an opportunity for mischief.

Last summer, I planned to organize my craft room while caring for bottle babies two days a week. That plan was immediately derailed by Gryphon (Griffon) and his “scream butt,” Apache (Nova) with her helmet head, Little Bird (Umo) rotating through standard kitten illnesses, and Black Hawk (Biggie), who sailed through fosterhood with fewer issues than he had brain cells—which, if you know Biggie, means zero issues and zero brain cells. Naturally, once adopted by my bestie, he made up for lost time with nonstop poop catastrophes. (We’ve finally achieved peace thanks to an expensive sensitive-tummy diet.)  So much for that plan.

This summer, I circled back to the “clean out the craft room” idea, but told the rescue I’d be open to taking weaners—kittens still getting 1–2 bottles a day—after I returned from vacation. After the school year ended, we took my dad to Hawaii to visit friends, and I came back ready to foster.

Instead, I was asked to rethink my entire foster setup.  There were concerns that my custom wooden kennel—despite being sealed—could harbor bacteria. It was getting scratched up, and I learned that some of my cleaning methods (like steam cleaning) could actually cause issues over time. That kicked off weeks of back-and-forth to create a system that worked for my life and gave the rescue peace of mind.  Eventually, we had a plan.

I gutted damaged wood, covered every surface with disinfectant-friendly vinyl flooring and wallpaper, caulked everything to the ends of the earth, and installed new stainless steel shelving. Then came ventilation upgrades—replacing pet screens with coated welded wire.

Easy, right?

We ordered the wire. It was supposed to arrive Friday. It made it to my local FedEx… and then vanished. Delayed to Saturday. Then Monday. No one knew where it was.  So we ordered another.

That one was delayed too.  So we ordered a third from Amazon with two-day shipping. Then Home Depot said the second one was ready for pickup. I went. I gave my order number. I waited. And waited. And waited some more.

“We can’t find it," said the guy.  (For your entertainment, I recommend googling “having a guy look”—my favorite version is by VivaLaDirtLeague.)

They did eventually find it. I got home… and the Amazon wire was sitting on my doorstep.

The first order? Never seen again. Canceled. Filed under "Not my problem."

After a lot of swearing, the wire was installed, the frame was finished, and by Wednesday afternoon I told the rescue I’d be ready for kittens Thursday. 

By 1:00pm, three fluffy orange kittens had arrived.

The finders had already taken them to the vet and dropped off paperwork, which I didn’t look at closely until after they left. When I reviewed it, I noticed extra invoices and reached out for clarification.

That’s when I learned more about the couple—a husband and wife doing TNR entirely out of their own pockets. The extra paperwork was for another kitten they were trying to socialize. They sent more photos and videos… and I discovered my kittens had a fourth sibling—the runt—who had been taken to the vet and adopted by a tech. (they sent pictures of all 4 babies!)

They also shared the kittens’ names:

The biggest dark fluffy one was Tater Tot.

The medium kitten was Cholula.

The lightest kitten was Crouton… described as the “male.”

Except… all three were girls.

I checked. A friend checked (after receiving the required “butt pics”). Multiple clinic staff checked. All girls.

I considered keeping the names—they were adorable—but we already had a Cholula in the rescue, so I kept an open mind.  Getting to know them, however, was… slow.

They spent more than half a day cowering in their litterbox. They didn’t fight being handled—they just froze in terror. I could wrap them in a blanket and hold them briefly, but they wanted nothing to do with me or the assortment of treats I offered. They lost 40–60 grams in the first 24 hours.

Eventually, they would eat—but only if I wasn’t in the room. I watched them on the kitten cam like a tiny, anxious wildlife researcher.

I tried to strike a balance: sitting nearby, talking softly, existing without pressure… but also gently introducing them to hands, to pets, to safety. Every weigh-in included blanket cuddles and another attempt at food.

By Saturday morning, they would eat with me in the room—as long as I didn’t move or make noise.  Progress.  That afternoon, I caught a glimpse of play on the camera—but they froze the moment I entered.

Saturday night, something shifted.

They were sleeping out in the open. Still tense when I approached—but not fleeing. When I stayed still, they relaxed. Eventually, they started tracking the wand toy. Little twitches. Focus. And then—

They played.  At first from a distance, ready to scatter. Then closer. Then right next to me.  Afterward, they retreated under the shelf—but in relaxed, sleepy positions instead of tight, fearful curls. I lay on my stomach, peering under like a dedicated goblin, and brought out a chicken filet.

The two darker girls were easy to convince. The medium one got very invested—tracking the source, climbing toward my face, purring loudly while I tried to coax the lightest kitten out.  Eventually, all three shared a chicken snack.  And their weights that night? Up.

By Sunday morning, they still startled when I approached—but they came out for wet food, for play, for interaction. The darkest one flopped into my lap mid-play and accepted pets without tension. The medium one purred multiple times. The lightest girl is still cautious, but she’s starting to soften.

All that quiet time—just sitting with them, watching them, letting them adjust at their own pace—kept bringing me back to the same thought:  Some of the best things take time.  And the things you invest patience, care, and intention into often become the most meaningful.  When the darkest kitten leaned forward to sniff my hand instead of retreating, the name Bonsai came to mind.

Bonsai, to me, represents patience and care. It’s not for someone seeking instant gratification—and neither are these kittens.

From there, I thought about other “worth the wait” ideas—slow cookers, buffering, aged cheese—but kept coming back to that quiet, intentional, almost meditative feeling.

That’s when Kintsugi came to mind—the art of repairing broken pottery with gold, honoring the repair as part of the object’s story. The person who earns her trust won’t just love her—they’ll value the process that built that bond.

And to complete the theme, I found Shibui—a concept of simple, subtle, unobtrusive beauty. The kind that doesn’t demand attention. The kind you have to sit with to fully appreciate.  Perfect for the shyest of the three.

And so, I present the Pawsitively Patient litter.

I hope you’ll be patient with us, too—as my summer ends, school begins, and these three continue their slow, beautiful journey toward trust.

Update 8/16/36

The newly renamed Patience Pack have had a wild two weeks.

We’ve continued to make cautious, slow progress—but for a little over a week, every mealtime felt like a gamble. Would they eat what they loved yesterday, or refuse it entirely and demand something new? I cycled through multiple brands of kitten food, chasing their ever-changing preferences, and weighed them far more often than strictly necessary.

When our surgery coordinator reached out, I gave her a heads-up about Shibui. She’s our pickiest eater and had been bouncing up and down in weight, plateauing in the 860s for several weigh-ins—just under the ~900g threshold needed for surgery. After a few more days of minimal progress, my mentor suggested we try Clavamox in case she was quietly fighting off something internal.

It worked. Almost immediately, she started gaining 30–50g a day.

Naturally, Kintsugi decided she would also like to be medically interesting.

She went on a hunger strike.

Her eye went from watery, to leaking pus, back to watery again as we rotated warm compresses and different eye meds. In just two days, she dropped from surgery-ready (922g) down to 796g. Once she finally achieved her apparent goal of also receiving Clavamox, she immediately changed her mind and gave me a very clear review of its flavor.

Most kittens take Clavamox easily. It’s a tiny dose, usually no problem.

Kintsugi foamed at the mouth.

Unfortunately, it didn’t help. Her weight kept dropping, so we added Safeguard and ponazuril for the entire litter. Bonsai, notably, did not receive the memo that she was supposed to cause me stress and continued to grow and thrive like a perfect, oblivious angel.

The others tolerated the meds reasonably well—mild resistance, nothing dramatic.

Kintsugi, however, had notes.

She made it very clear what she thought about daily syringes. And just in case her screaming and frothing weren’t persuasive enough, she punctuated her feedback by leaking liquid poop directly into my lap.

The next morning, she still lost a little weight—but something finally shifted. She started to feel better.

And then she decided she loved food again.

She devoured half a can of wet food in one sitting. For the next couple of days, she refused kibble but enthusiastically demanded canned food. Thankfully, she did not notice when I began mixing in small amounts of kibble—first a dribble, then a dollop, then a full pile—until she was fully transitioned back. She regained her weight quickly… though not quite quickly enough to make her surgery date.

Which brings us back to Shibui.

Despite her pickiness, she loves kibble and lives for playtime. She’s always the first to emerge when toys come out—quick, agile, and determined to turn anything that skitters across the floor into a game. She finally made it to surgery at a proud 975g, ready for the next step toward her forever home.

Only… she appears to have misread the assembly manual and placed her liver in her chest cavity.

She’ll need a consult with the UC Davis team.

Along with that surprise, the vet noted she has a “spine of a French bulldog.” We didn’t know what that meant at first, but it refers to a V-shaped “tent” in the spine often seen in compact breeds. It may be congenital or the result of early trauma that healed imperfectly, but it’s not expected to cause major issues—possibly just earlier arthritis.

They told me the official name of her condition—something with a P and maybe a D—but at the time, all I really retained was enough to make the mistake of Googling it.

Which led me to:

“This could be genetic.”

“If one kitten has it, others might too.”

“Organs can shift suddenly.”

“Symptoms include weight loss, diarrhea, vomiting.”

…cool cool cool cool cool.

Did I get kittens so orange they forgot how to assemble properly?

Google sent me into a mild panic spiral, but our lead medical mentor reassured me that it was unlikely to be affecting Kintsugi as well—which was both comforting and slightly suspicious, given how neatly it explained her chaos.

I picked them up with one primary instruction: do not sedate Shibui and put her on her back (which honestly feels like very reasonable life advice in general). Otherwise, no major restrictions while we wait for her consult—which is good, because she came home ready to party.

Bonsai, meanwhile, returned in the most impressively post-surgery-high state I have ever witnessed. She forgot how to sit, forgot how to cat, and spent several hours as a melted puddle of orange fluff until the meds wore off.

The past two weeks of medications and obsessive weigh-ins may have set back our trust a bit. They still tend to scatter when I enter the room or move too quickly—but they come back out much faster now. If I stay still, they’ll curl up on my legs, demand pets, and purr endlessly. I’ve started hiding Churu under my pillow so I can reward them when they approach me on their own.

Today—about two and a half weeks in—was a small but meaningful breakthrough.

I entered the room, sat outside their kennel, and slowly opened it.

No one ran.

Kintsugi started to retreat when I reached in, but before she fully committed to escape, I was able to give her a few soft pets. She paused… then melted, started purring, and laid back down to enjoy it. All three were purring loudly—right up until I made the unforgivable decision to clean the litter box.

Yesterday, I had a foster friend stop by to give their evening meds because I had to take my dad to the ER. I did make it home briefly to sleep, but I’m back here again now, waiting to find out when he’ll be moved to a room.

They hid for her, of course. Kintsugi added her signature “I am SO scary” hisses (for the record: she is not scary). But even then, they stayed sweet—more likely to curl into a ball than lash out when approached gently.

I’ll know more about Shibui after her consult next week, and Kintsugi is scheduled for surgery at the end of the month. I’m not sure when I’ll have another update with everything going on—but for now…

please be patient.

(Apparently, it’s the theme of this entire pack.)

Update 8/30/26: 

My dad was in the hospital for nearly a week, which meant this litter got far less socialization than I ever like to admit. Mornings were triage: wrangle kittens for weights, gently wrestle Kintsugi through her medications (she disagreed with the term gently), then rush out the door. Midday stops were just enough time to refill food, scoop litter, and pass out evening meds before heading back to the hospital. Nights ended the same way—stumbling home, one more round of meds, a few sleepy pets, and then starting over again.

Somewhere in the middle of that chaos, UC Davis called. They wanted to see Shibui… the next day.

My house, my dad’s hospital, and UCD form a perfect triangle of inconvenience—each point about 30–45 minutes apart. There was no way to be in all three places at once, but rescue people are magic. With a relay of volunteers, Shibui made it to and from her two-day exam and surgery. The UCD team quite literally put things back where they belonged, stitched her up, and sent her home with strict instructions: meds, rest, and absolutely no chaos.

Shibui disagreed with all of that.

Confined to a small kennel, she paced and tracked her sisters, who took turns circling her enclosure like tiny, chaotic moons—occasionally launching themselves onto the top of it for dramatic effect. When her flimsy pop-up kennel collapsed (because of course it did), I upgraded her setup with a small stool so she could retreat somewhere safe—and so her food and water would stop getting dive-bombed.

We increased her pain meds to keep her comfortable (and ideally sleepy). It half worked—she never showed signs of pain again—but it also meant she felt good enough to be deeply offended about being separated. So we compromised with supervised nightly snuggle time, which she treated as both a reunion and a protest. 

Back at home, even after my dad was discharged, things didn’t exactly settle. We’ve been cycling through home health visits, new routines, and constant adjustments. The kittens still didn’t get the time I usually give.

And yet… they came anyway.

At first, they’d scatter when I walked into the room. But the moment I sat down, they’d reappear—usually led by Bonsai, the boldest of the bunch and unapologetically food motivated. She has learned that I sometimes sleep with snacks hidden under my pillow, and she has absolutely no issue walking directly across my face to investigate. She will accept pets as a consolation prize, but only temporarily.

Shibui, on the other hand, would much rather play than snack—which is unfortunate timing, given her “no chaos” recovery orders. Her body says rest, but her soul says launch at that toy immediately.  She did, however, return from her surgery more affectionate than ever.  Though she initially hated the cold compress treatment, once she got used to it, she seemed to enjoy the personal attention and the copious ear scritches I used during the treatment.

And then there’s Kintsugi.

She was the last to trust, the quietest presence in the room—the one I had to wait for. But when she decided I was safe, she went all in. She melts into arms, purrs like she’s making up for lost time, and has somehow transformed into the most affectionate of them all. By the time it was finally her turn for surgery, she had not only regained her appetite—she had overtaken her sisters and claimed the top spot on the weight chart. The vet techs didn’t want to give her back; she spent the day being passed from person to person, happily curling into whoever held her.

When she came home, Nimbus—my two-year-old resident cat who had previously ignored the entire litter—decided she was the most important creature in existence. He refused to stay out of the room, marched laps around it purring loudly, and aggressively loved everything in reach: kittens, kennels, furniture, air molecules. Kintsugi followed him like she’d always known him, curling into him like they were old friends.

Lately, the kittens have found their voices. After weeks of near silence, they now greet me with tiny, hopeful mewls—especially when they sit at the door, watching my house cats explore the rest of the home, clearly convinced they belong out there too.

They still don’t always stay. They wander, they explore—but they come back when I call. They climb into my lap while I work. And when Bonsai or Shibui decide I’m not being attentive enough, they get scooped into my very professional kitten sling (a hamster hammock tied around my neck) so I can continue functioning as both human and furniture.

They didn’t get the version of fostering I usually give.

But they got enough.

They’re all fixed now, healing, and—if all goes well—heading toward adoption next week.

Worth the wait, every single one of them.