The big day arrived, and the kittens were home.
One tabby. One ginger.
All three of us were nervous.
I left them alone for a short while to look around quietly. They were in my bedroom for a two-week quarantine — safe, though not always quiet. It was winter, and my duvet and throw were already popular places to sleep — mainly with my seeing cats, who were curious about what was going on and no doubt annoyed at being shut out.
At this point, there was no plan.
I’d been online, trying to find out how best to look after blind cats, but it was mostly negative. Lists of don’ts. People even asking whether blind cats should be allowed to live. I came away sad and unsure, wondering if I’d done the right thing by homing them, because at that moment I didn’t think I could give them a life.
Now and again, though, there were glimmers of light — little gems — and two bits of advice stood out. I still use them to this day.
Talk to your blind cat as soon as possible, and let it get used to your voice. Not just for familiarity, but for safety as well, in case it gets lost or confused.
And then there was this — and it was brilliant — bring yourself down to their level and talk to them in a silly voice. They will respond.
Now, my voice is deep. But this was the first day of school. I had no plan and no idea what I was doing, so I gave it my highest-pitched, silliest voice.
Two heads looked up.
Bingo.
A way in.
I realised then that I couldn’t rely on the internet for support. I would have to adapt and find my own way forward — just as the kittens were doing with me. Soon, they had names. We were living and learning together.
It’s been seven years now.
And I’m still learning.