Today I stopped by the shelter to visit Sweetie. I'm not sure I should have, but I'm sure I can't not. That's just the way I am. The kittens have all been adopted, which is a good thing, I suppose.
Sweetie is housed in a nice room with four other cats, a tall cat pole with multiple levels for roosting, some overturned litterbox tops, like turtle shells, for hiding under (what a great idea), and litterboxes, and food, of course.
Her roommates were very pleasant. Several of them greeted me, and one, a three-year-old female who is a mini-Madeleine, spent most of the visit in my lap, presenting her spay scar for me to admire.
Sweetie was crouched in a litter box, looking rather unhappy, I must say. I sat and talked to her, and after a few moments a look of recognition crossed her face and she gave me "kitty kisses," that slow eye squinting thing cats do to recognize you. She let me pet her briefly, until she moved into a turtle shell with a large tuxedo cat who looked remarkably like John.
During all this she let out strings of sneezes, so she has obviously caught a cold, which accounts for some of her miserable demeanor.
I worry about lots of things, but now I am most worried about how she will compete in the adoption race with her unremarkable tabby coloring (at least in her present state of scruffiness) and her cold. Especially against all the kittens who will soon be flooding the shelter. People, spay your pets!
Like PFS says, I'm going crawl away to sob for awhile now, before I dust myself off to return to the fray. But I think I had better stick to the orphans. The mommas' lot is too hard for me to bear.