I’ve always loved this time of year. Don’t get me wrong – fall and spring will (hands down) always be my favourite seasons, but there’s something about the onset of summer, that period of time where it’s warm during the day but delightfully cool in the evening, warm enough to let you roam the streets in just a t-shirt and a skirt, feet outfitted in flip flops, handbag dangling along, shooting photos as you wander, yet cool enough to merit that second-thought, that “should-i-bring-a-sweater-ish-ness” that comes with the change of seasons.

It’s marvelous to fall asleep without having to wonder if it will *ever* get cooler. To not have to contemplate air conditioning. To be able to sit on the porch with your laptop and type into the early morning without melting (or turning into an ice-pop).

It’s funny to see how our kitties react to heat. I mean, for all of their “I am so grown up at five-weeks-old” ness, they really have no idea. They’ve never experienced anything like it. They get easily scared of weather – of rain, of thunder and lightning, and heat, well that just plum tuckers them out and makes them lay face down in the hallway, barely moving an inch.

Which is why Margaret is happy to see us bring out the cold people food. She knows that people food is not for kitties, but she couldn’t resist the poking-up stems of these cherries. Neither could we.

we thought margaret needed a friend and so along came mittens to keep her from being lonely and missing her sister. of course, you’ve never seen margaret, but you can get an idea of what she looks like when she’s being friendly here. She’s pretty awesome. So is miss mittens (so named because she’s got SIX TOES on BOTH front paws and that is just pure mitten-y awesomeness).

so far this weekend we have called what amounts to a zillion apartments, snuggled with a bunch of sneezy kitties, set up camp on the front porch (because porches and summer go together hand-in-hand). And I have contemplated a nap. A loooong nap.

I knew when I first started fostering kitties that there was always a chance – albeit slight – that something would happen. But it never did. Not in 37 cats did something ever go wrong. I could count myself lucky. Until today.

Today I lost my first kitty. We picked them up on Monday, needing some kitty love since Alice and Chewy and Winston and Matilda left. They didn’t have names yet. But as usual, they didn’t need names for us to love them.

When we got home yesterday, she was lethargic and slow. By night, she was near comatose, not even responding for tuna. And every cat responds to tuna. She would lay in your arms and just lay there, head flopped over, breathing, but doing nothing else. Her ears wouldn’t prick up. Her eyes wouldn’t follow you. We took her in to the humane society late, so she could get fluids, and more immediate care than she could at home.

Today, the diagnosis. Liver failure. Jaundice. In a 6 week old kitty. There was nothing they could do for her.

And it breaks my heart every time I replay it in my mind, wishing there was something I could have done to make her better. She is missed.