2022 and 2023 were some of the most difficult years of my life. After Lyra and Jones died, it was just me, Brook, and Flora Sweet. Brook and I rested and for a little while and were grateful, and felt terrible to be grateful, that we didn’t have to give any beasties pills and subcutaneous fluids several times a day, that we didn’t have to clean up all around the cats’ litter boxes because Lyra and Jones were so increasingly arthritic and unsteady on their feet.

Flora Sweet (Herself, Madame Woundwort, Triple Threat) was very happy to become an only child. For a while, we were able to let her get into bed with us at night because she stopped peeing and pooing on it in aggressive displays of territoriality against Jones and Lyra. (For a while, it even seemed like she’d become a lap bunny but she’s so far stopped short at falling asleep with her head on our legs when we sit on the floor with her.) She eventually started the bed soiling again though, so we had to stop, which made me desperately sad.

I was, of course, already beyond desperately sad but my brain was doing its damnedest to dole out the agony in small chunks. Having to debar Flora Sweet from sleeping with us pushed me over some kind of line and one day last June, I realized I needed to adopt a cat or kitten immediately or I might not make it. I love all animals; it turns out, though, that I require cats.

We applied to adopt a gorgeous orange boy from a local shelter but someone else had applied ahead of us and was approved. We then applied for two black kittens, three-month-old sisters, and were told someone else had gotten to them just before we did as well. That wasn’t a good day.

But a few days later, the rescue contacted us about those kittens, wanting to know if we were still interested. We had a lovely phone interview during which we learned they were semi-feral and couldn’t be touched, apparently healthy, and liked each other but weren’t bonded (I still don’t know what this latter point meant but it’s not true). The adoption agent worried the kittens would chase our rabbit when they got big enough and we laughed a lot and assured them that it would absolutely be the other way around.

Dara and Pixie came home July 22, 2023. They lived under the bathroom sink at first; then we expanded their domain to our bedroom, wherein they hid while we were awake and then rough-housed all night long, using our sleepy heads as launch pads for their antics. (The first night I groggily wondered, “Is ‘rough-house’ an Americanism?” (It is!) I also thought, “EXTREME! PARKOUR!“)

Semi-feral? Yes. Semi-affectionate? No; they are utterly besotted with us. Just three days after they arrived, Pixie was sitting on Brook’s lap for pets; five days after they arrived, Dara was standing on my leg demanding I scratch her head. It didn’t all happen at once, and Brook felt the full power of a terrified Pixie’s nails the first time he tried to pick her up; but they both enjoy being held now.

They sleep with us, usually at our feet. Dara especially likes to sleep on my lap, too. They chase us screaming in their adorable falsettos when they want either to play or to be adored. They nap on our desks when we’re working. Pixie climbs the shower curtain and yowls till I stick my head out and kiss her, after which she climbs back down. The ten strands of white fur they brought between the two of them have attached themselves to our clothes and continue to multiply exponentially.

They comforted us when Flora Sweet had her accident and never used Herself’s recovery time and now permanent disability against her; indeed, Flora Sweet still chases and bullies them but Dara and Pixie are from the mean streets of Mississauga; a grumpy rabbit, no matter how large, doesn’t make a lasting impression on them.

I love them so much. The second night they were here and still living under the sink, I went into the bathroom to get ready to go out. While brushing my teeth, I heard one of them start up their purr motor and keep it going the whole time I was there; for the first time in many, many months I felt a little like myself.

The only medicine for lost love is love. And I am arse-over-kettle in love with these girls.