Some 10 years ago, my then-fiancée and I chatted over cups of coffee about what our married life would be like. We dreamed together, sure, but we talked about practicalities of everyday life, of home, of how we wanted to actually live.

I was clear: No dogs. My husband agreed.

It’s not that either of us doesn’t like dogs, necessarily, but we were old and wizened enough to be militantly practical: If you can’t eat it or it doesn’t lay eggs, why endure hair, peeing and pooping, slobber and veterinarian bills?

“Companionship” just wasn’t enough to win us over to the responsibility of having to find a dog sitter if we were away for a night, and making guests endure the barking, sniffing or jumping isn’t terribly hospitable. We didn’t need a guard dog or a hunter, and neither of us is blind.

So: No dogs.



But then our son watched and read “Old Yeller,” and we considered a canine — briefly — for what’s more idyllic than a freckled little boy with his trusty dog? Alas, common sense trumped sentiment, and I drove right on by the “Shepherd Puppies — $25” sign I saw somewhere southwest of here.

If we ever did get a dog — and if we someday have a good, practical reason and the landlord’s endorsement, we might — that dog would not live in the house. I already often share my bed with six or eight extra arms and legs and vacuum up pounds of muffin crumbs and popcorn. And a teething toddler does enough slobbering for all of us.

So our dog, if we had one, would live outside. Outside is where our cats live.

See, I like animals well enough. We decided to go ahead and get “barn cats” — though our “barn” is really more like a garage — to keep up with mice. My little ones were thrilled one day when, on the way home from a post-partum visit, I said, “The next Amish house I see with a ‘Free Kittens’ sign, I’m stopping.”

We got a great, older barn kitten from a typically pristine Amish home. He was a super cat and lasted quite a while before going missing this past winter. We had warned our children that cats die, go away or are hit by cars. Over time, our one barn cat turned into four — amazing how that happens — and one did, in fact, get hit by a car.

I’m taking a long time to get to the fun part, the news: One of our barn cats recently had kittens!



For many people, this is no big deal. But for me, a midwifery student, anything birthing anything is thrilling.

We knew she was pregnant. In fact, the children witnessed the coupling and let us know the cats were “wrestling.” So my husband, who has become quite the childbearing expert, wrote on the calendar the cat’s estimated due date.

Guess what?! He was exactly right.

As the afternoon wore into evening on her due date, the cat came to the door meowing. I figured she wanted milk. She licked some cream, but she wasn’t all that interested. Instead, she followed me around crying.

I finally decided to notice her and saw evidence she might be in labor. She nestled into my lap, purring wildly.

We took the cat out to the garage-barn, delivering her to her cardboard box. I put a chux down under her and left. It wasn’t long before my 6-year-old daughter yelled across the yard, “Mom! She’s pushing! I can hear it!”

For the next 100 minutes or so — But who counted? — we watched the cat have her kittens. It was beautiful. We kept our talking, cooing and touching to a minimum, and we marveled watching her instinctually know what to do.

At one point I did ask for my birth bag and donned a pair of gloves; in the end, however, I didn’t touch anything.

I thought she was done at three kittens, but my daughter astutely noted, “Mom, there’s another one. It’s breech. I can see its feet.” Sure enough, the last kitten was coming hind feet first, which concerned me some. The mama cat seemed tired, and I was worried she wouldn’t have the energy to push out the baby.



For just a minute, I had to talk myself through what I already know: Her body knows what to do. Just leave her alone and see. Not long after, she gave a final heave, and that last kitten slid out. Mama got it breathing, and I said to myself, “See?”

Once the kittens were settled and nursing, I had to reiterate why newborns need their mothers and little else — so no picking up, cuddling or feeding by 6-year-old girls just yet.

Over bowls of soup, my family and I debriefed the experience, which my daughter loves to iterate dramatically. She chose her “Junior Birth Assistant” T-shirt the next morning.

Between cars and run-offs and births, we’re at six barn cats now, which my husband and I did not discuss some 10 years ago. Still, no dogs, and don’t go bringing us a puppy. It’s “Wild Kingdom” enough here for now — today, with four little kittens, pleasantly so.



Goshen News columnist Stephanie Price is a wife, mother, teacher, childbirth educator, midwife’s assistant and nursing student living in Union, Mich. Contact her at wholefamily@goshennews.com, 269-641-7249 or on Facebook at the page “Whole Family Column by Steph Price.”