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When Gravy Boat and Meatball Sub left to try out a new foster home, Taco Truck became an only kitten overnight. She protested loudly at first, but quickly decided this arrangement was actually fantastic—unlimited Nimbus snuggles and freedom from the kennel.
Because her kennel was now being used for four new kittens.
The day before Taco Truck’s sisters left, I received a screenshot of a text exchange between intake and a good samaritan finder begging for help with a momma cat and three older kittens. The visible text mentioned a fourth kitten they were still trying to trap—but the photos told the real story. The entire family was being kept in a kennel barely large enough for a single cat. About 75% of the space was taken up by a litter box, where the whole family huddled, while the remaining sliver held food and water.
No explanation came with the screenshots, but I replied immediately—and enthusiastically:
“ARE YOU ASKING ME TO TAKE A MOM AND BABIES?”
Intake called to explain that they weren’t sure the rescue would take them. We primarily focus on neonatal kittens who need intensive support to grow, not three-month-olds. But if an exception were made, the kittens would need an experienced foster due to their condition. I let them know I could kick Taco out of the kennel and make room if they decided to move forward.
The next day, I got the call.
When I picked them up, it was just four babies—the last kitten had been caught—but mom was staying behind to be spayed and adopted outside of the rescue.
For freshly trapped older kittens, they were shockingly friendly. They were also shockingly sick. Shortly after arriving home, I had to subject them to a truly unreasonable amount of medicine. They were filthy—as expected for a family forced to live in a litter box—and I immediately broke out into hives. After meds, we went straight to the sink for baths.
Three kittens submitted to this nonsense with forlorn cries, clearly too stunned by the sudden changes in their lives to fight back. But the runt fought everything with every ounce of her very limited strength. She was half the size of her siblings—basically a skeleton with a light dusting of fur and skin. Because of her condition, she also needed subcutaneous fluids, which she protested even more vigorously than the oral meds (three kinds!), eye drops, soap, and towel dry.
Despite the absolute horror I subjected her to during our first meeting (including a tug-of-war over her hard-earned, dried-up boogers), she approached me immediately afterward, curled up on my arm, and attempted to purr. She was so congested she couldn’t quite manage it—it sounded like a broken motor.
I named her Jigsaw.
Side note: I have my mom’s cat, also named Jigsaw, who looks remarkably like baby Jigsaw—just the fluffy version. Mom’s Jigsaw is a cozy puzzle piece; this one is a power tool in desperate need of repair. I’m determined to grease her gears and get that motor revving very soon.
The largest calico quickly became Needlenose Pliers, though I call her Noodle. How do you get Noodle from Needlenose? There is a pure science behind nicknames that cannot be explained, but it makes sense if you avoid logic entirely. From the moment she entered my home, Noodle declared me her person. She followed me everywhere, climbed into my lap, and began “teething” me—not biting, just gently resting the tips of her needle-sharp teeth on my fingers and toes. I’m working on inhibiting that behavior… but it absolutely inspired her name.
Next came Monkey Wrench, the smaller boy with wild sneezes and a deep desire to swing from my furniture. Long legs, nonstop chaos—tossing toys, running on the cat wheel, eating his sister’s head. He’s either actively seeking mischief or completely surrendering to indoor life, belly-up and trusting.
That leaves the handsome tuxedo: Socket Wrench. Yes, he has perfect socks—but he’s also just incredibly dependable. Loves food, causes no trouble, and goes completely limp with love when you pick him up.
…Or he’s secretly a demon who doesn’t feel great yet and is biding his time.
But for now, we’re going with “he’s a good boy.”
Shortly after baths and medications, as the Toolbox and I were settling in for some bonding time, I heard two very pathetic cries outside the gate. Nimbus and Taco Truck were extremely confused, but we are strict about quarantine. After snapping a picture, I added a plastic panel—because the Toolbox was way too interested in meeting them already.
Why “the Toolbox”? This was one of the easiest litters I’ve ever named. These kittens are serious fixer-uppers. I cannot count the number of times they sneezed directly into my face or how many boogers I’ve excavated from their noses.
That first night, they surprised me by all curling up with me to cuddle. Feeling safe, secure, and still groggy from being sick, they didn’t move all night—completely ignoring my coughing, hacking, and dry heaving, as I am also very sick right now.
Home sick from work, I spent the next day with them doing absolutely nothing productive. Morning meds took nearly an hour. Thankfully, most of them were willing to take medication mixed into food, which was far less traumatic than syringes and pills. Jigsaw, however, needed frequent breaks—too congested to breathe and eat at the same time. The process was exhausting, but she saved enough energy to climb up my leg and sleep on my chest for an hour before joining her siblings, who had taken over the bed.
I was deeply honored by the amount of kitten belly they showed me in trust after everything they’d been through. And Socket Wrench was eager to show that he really is a good boy. He loves rubbing his face into my hands and face, purring up a storm.
As Jigsaw began to feel better, her small stature became more obvious. She looks like she belongs to a different litter, but her teeth indicate she’s the same age—and likely a biological sibling. She’s very stunted, but still a firecracker. While the others tolerate medications and cleaning with mild protest, Jigsaw must be handled with care—and respect.
The second night was also cuddle-heavy, but by night three, they felt well enough for ALL. NIGHT. ZOOMIES.
Yes. All night.
I was awake anyway, thanks to my uncooperative lungs. Even Jigsaw joined in, her eyes clearer and brighter than they’d been since arrival.
Every household should have a well-stocked toolbox—and once these little fixer-uppers are healthy and fixed, they’ll be ready for homes of their own. They’re incredibly friendly, resilient, and already so loved.
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