They're going in for spaying very soon, and since there's room at the shelter they'll be staying there after their surgery until someone adopts them.
Two ideas that catch my chest with a tangible pang: the idea of them living there for days, in one of those cages, or maybe many days, and the idea of them being no longer able to enjoy each other's company. I'm sure they'll be fine, adjusting, as animals do, and as they have done, either way. Just it catches in my chest, thinking about it.
I would guess (and have to think) they have a pretty good chance of adoption, being kitties, and being adorable.
Goodness' sakes, though. Goodness' sakes. It's a workout in the chest cavity. The tear ducts are probably gonna get some play too.
It's looking at them and knowing the cage is next, I think. Mostly. Right now. Right now it's the thinking about that, when I think about the next step for them from me. The dropping them off.
I've been calling the delightful little ones Dusty and Punky (or Punkin). And Punky sometimes has been Trotsky, cuzza how she trots when she gallops along the floor, or Leona, at bigfinedaddy's suggestion---it's the feminine of Trotsky, y'see.
Did I mention they were the runts of the litter? They were the runts of the litter. Their sibs were big enough to go up for adoption when they came to the shelter.
If you're looking for love, there's some love right there.
They're going to be alright, almost no matter what, or pretty much alright, or alright enough for it to be alright. Right?