And so the kittens got into a routine and spent days outside and nights inside. In the morning they could hardly contain themselves at the door. One trying to get ahead of the other to get outside.
Blackie still didn’t like to go far. He would hang around the deck while the other two went roaming. One day I couldn’t find Blackie but I could hear him meowing. I decided the meows were coming from inside the wagon shed. I called him until I was tired of calling and he wouldn’t come. He did answer though, mournful meows from upstairs in the shed. I couldn’t go up there and I didn’t trust the stairs. The shed was old and rundown so I just left him. By supper time he was at the door with the others.
As the kittens got older they appreciated their baths less and less. Spitty didn’t mind too much, but both Blackie and Mittens put up a fight. The only thing that Mittens still enjoyed was getting his long fur dried with the hair dryer.
An angry Mittens
Wet little Blackie
As time went on Mittens started spending more and more time in the barn. He was a good mouser so he didn’t miss the food in the house. After awhile he started spending nights out there as well. Blackie and Spitty continued to stay in the house at nights.
Blackie and Mittens
The years rolled by and by 2001 I was moving. I had left the farm behind and Mittens stayed with the farm. Blackie and Spitty came with me. We moved to a very large house where I was sitting up a Bed and Breakfast. The cats adjusted well. They were now six years old.
What came next is the heart-wrenching part of my story and part four will be the end of my tale. It is the hardest part to write.