Back before I met my wife I used to rescue cats. She’s allergic, so I had to choose and frankly I like her better. After all, she doesn’t sleep on my head.
In 1998 I rescued a golden retriever puppy I named Murph, about eight months old and a little skittish. At the same time, a friend told me about a feral colony of cats on the other side of town. I called a rescue group, and they said they were full up and couldn’t take the cats, but would lend me humane traps and pay to spay any I could get.
I trapped a couple dozen of the guys over a period of about two weeks and put them in my basement with the stairs blocked. Murph liked to go down the stairs to the block and sniff at them, and over the time it took me to get them all spayed and adopted out she made friends with a bunch of them and would jump the gate to hang out.
Eventually I adopted all but two of the cats out, and always thought I would so never named them. However, Murph and the two unnamed cats were friends for life. If we’d had instagram back then they’d have been famous, too!
