I love May, but I feel an old longing as it begins, for May is the month that my beloved Maine Coon boy was born. Remembering him today evokes a sense of gratitude for being in the right place at the right time all those years ago. Abandoned by his breeder and suffering from a severe respiratory infection, he was rescued and taken to a foster home. Terrified and still too little to be on his own, he tried to comfort himself by curling up inside a wicker wastebasket.
I wanted him the moment I saw him, took him home, then rushed him to the vet. The next morning I went to see him and was asked if I would try to get him to eat. "If he doesn't eat, he won't last much longer," said the vet. I held a spoonful of food up for him to try and promised I would never, ever leave him. He looked up at me and then began to eat. He ate one plate of food and then a second helping.
The little boy kitten who had almost given up lived on ― for 18 years ― and gloried in being outdoors in every season. His spirit still lingers in the woods, gardens and mossy corners of this property. A tender soul, he was meant to be born in the tender month of May.