The Heart of Family: Tales from the Eastside Colony

More Than Just Strays

By Mr. Whiskers, senior sentinel of the eastside colony

They say cats are solitary creatures. Clearly, they’ve never met my colony.

Out here in the scrubby corner of Garlic City, we’ve built more than just a hiding place behind the hydrangeas—we’ve built a family. Not the kind with matching sweaters and awkward holiday photos, but the kind that grooms your ears when you’re too tired, curls around you when it rains, and keeps watch while you sleep. It’s a feral sort of love. Quiet. Scrappy. Loyal.

Meet the Family

Let me tell you about us.

Pepper, our patchy gray queen, isn’t much for talking. But every night, no matter how tired she is, she licks Little Bean clean from ears to tail. She doesn’t complain, even when Bean rolls in the burrs again. That’s how you show love when you’ve got no words.

Toad, named for his squashed-looking face and unfortunate breath, won’t admit it, but he never eats until Mewsli has had her share. He waits. He watches. Then he eats like a garbage disposal. That’s Toad for you—ugly as a shoe, but with a heart of gold.

And me? I’m the lookout. I’m the first to rise and the last to sleep. I sit on the rusted fencepost, tail twitching, scanning the horizon for trouble. Coyotes, loose dogs, and the occasional loud human with jangly pockets. I don’t do it because anyone tells me to. I do it because this is my family. You don’t turn your back on that.

The Bonds of Our Colony

People look at us and think we’re just strays—wild and alone.

But they don’t see how Shadow always walks on the outside edge, between the little ones and the open street. Or how Cricket sings when she’s nervous, and the rest of us go quiet so we can hear her.

They don’t hear the soft mrrp we give one another in greeting or the low warning growl when something’s off. We don’t have collars or microchips, but we know who we belong to.

We belong to each other.

The Reality of Rescue

That’s why, when the rescue humans come with their traps and warm voices, we whisper our goodbyes if someone gets scooped up. Not forever—just until they’re safe. Fixed. Maybe adopted. Or maybe returned to us, ear tipped and wiser.

We grieve when they don’t come back. And yes—we remember.

A Feral Family

We are feral, but we are not forgotten. Not by each other. Not by the kind hands that bring food each day. Not by the ones who leave shelters for the cold nights, whispering softly so we don’t bolt.

So, next time you see us dart under a bush or slink along a fence, don’t just see strays. See a family. A chosen one. Fierce, dirty, and stitched together by survival and love.

If you’re lucky, maybe one day, we’ll let you be part of it.

Until next time, keep your tail high and your enemies in sight.

– Mr. Whiskers

Senior Lookout, Garlic City Kitty Rescue (Unofficial but Highly Respected)