The days had passed into weeks, then a month.
Harry and William were growing in confidence and ability far faster than I had expected. There was nothing in the narrative about this either — no surprises there.
Nothing in my house was too much trouble anymore. Certainly not the sofa and chairs, which were now climbed routinely and with ease.
Life was settling down.
But the kittens were about to turn it all upside down.
Bringing a disabled animal into your home is a wonderful thing, I think — but it’s no small undertaking. You both have to adapt. To new surroundings, new smells, obstacles, voices, warmth, food, love.
Owners have to get used to announcing themselves before entering a room, talking in silly voices, sitting or lying on the floor, playing games, and — most importantly — finding confidence in the new member of the household who can’t see. Because they will test you, sooner or later.
There will be accidents.
Hugo has them most days. Not to himself, but to objects he dislodges as he lays claim to his kingdom.
With time, patience, and understanding, your blind cat will adapt to their new life sooner than you will adapt to yours.
The days continued to pass, and furniture was no longer an issue for Harry and William. The house itself was no longer an obstacle. They had access to everywhere, and I found myself wondering what came next.
The boys were bored.
I looked at climbing towers, but they seemed a little unsteady, and Harry and William were gaining weight. Would a tower support them? How long would it be before boredom set in?
There was nothing online about any of that. The narrative went as far as keeping blind cats indoors — and then simply stopped.
But life doesn’t stop.
What happened next wasn’t planned.
After weeks of being alert, watching their every move, I let my guard down one morning. Nothing dramatic — just a small mistake.
Harry and William were asleep, so I took the opportunity to step into the garden and potter about. It was still winter, but it felt like a break. A bit of me time.
I hadn’t closed the back door properly.
As I sat outside, I happened to look up and saw two small heads peeking out.
I didn’t jump up in panic.
The weeks before had taught me there was far more to blind cats than I’d been led to believe. Instead, I watched. If they panicked, I was close enough to intervene and bring them back inside.
But they didn’t.
Noses were working overtime. The air, the ground — everything was being sniffed as they slowly made their way into the garden.
Cars passed by. Heads lifted briefly, more from curiosity than fear, then lowered again as they returned to the important work — sniffing.
I watched with a mixture of amusement and fascination.
They discovered the rock that sits just inside the garden.
Most of it was surrounded by irises in bloom, but the back end sloped gently down to ground level. They found it quickly, explored it, and climbed their way up to the top.
It was winter, but the sun came out — and they played.
They were adventurers. Explorers. Climbers.
On the rock, off the rock, around it — they played. They were having the time of their lives in a garden experts had deemed too dangerous. Too noisy. Too risky. A place where blind cats might panic, run blindly, get injured.
The rock where they played & I knew there was a story to tell, their story
But none of that happened.
There wasn’t much foot traffic up here, but there were cars. Heads lifted occasionally, then settled again, and it was back to the important business of playing.
They were still only babies, and before long the excitement took its toll. They found a spot among the plants, half in and out of the sun, and fell asleep.
I’d been questioning almost every piece of online advice about blind cats since Harry and William arrived. Now I knew that what was out there was, at best, flawed — and at worst, simply wrong.
You can call me cynical, but I began to wonder whether every possible nightmare scenario had been put forward because the experts simply didn’t know what blind cats were capable of.
Nobody wanted to take the risk of getting it wrong.
So by placing every negative in front of people, if something did go wrong, the responsibility would fall on the owner — not the advice.
What I saw in the garden that morning changed my life forever.
There were wrongs to be put right, and a story to tell — their story.
Blind Cat Life With Friends had arrived.