For fifty years, my grandparents owned a small dairy farm in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. They started with four cows in the 1940s and at the peak of production managed a herd of 70 Holsteins. Having several barn cats was always essential to protect the cows’ grain from rodents.

My grandpa Bob Welty loved cats. If he thought no other people were around, he would sometimes lay down in the hay in the barn and play with one of the friendlier cats. Bob would have invited the nice ones into the house too if my grandma hadn’t protested. Christine appreciated cats as a necessary component of farm life, but “cats do not belong inside the house,” she ruled. The kitties didn’t mind. Most of the cats on the property were feral and wouldn’t have accepted an invitation inside.

Spaying and neutering cats was unheard of on farms then. Nature’s elements, as well as waves of distemper in the winter, would control the population. My grandparents fed their cats milk, but nothing else. The kitties were motivated to hunt for their primary food source and keep the grounds free of pests.

When my grandparents were in their 70s, a feral pregnant cat took refuge in their chicken coop one summer day. She delivered six kittens in a bed of straw.

As part of her daily chores, Christine visited the coop three times a day. She opened the coop door at sunrise to allow the flock to roam the pasture. At mid-morning, she collected the eggs. And shortly before sunset, she ushered the chickens back inside the coop and latched the door shut. Under the eaves, they were protected from hungry predators like foxes, coyotes, and raccoons.

With Christine’s repeated visits to the coop and the flock’s commotion, the feral mama soon decided it wasn’t such a safe environment after all. She resolved to relocate her babies. She selected the four healthiest kittens and moved them at dusk to an unknown destination. It was a Sophie’s Choice. She left the two runts of the litter behind, nestled in the straw where she had given birth to them a few days before.

When opening the hatch door the next morning, Christine noticed two five-day-old tabby kittens mewing loudly for a mama that was nowhere in sight. They were so young, their eyes weren’t open yet.

Cats didn’t belong in Christine’s house, but my grandma was a compassionate person. She empathized with the abandoned babies and forgot about the remaining morning chores. She cradled the two kittens in her shirt and walked them gingerly up to the house.

My mom, Rita, and Aunt Kas happened to be visiting Pennsylvania at the time. They had just driven 12 hours from Nashville, Tennessee to visit their parents and other relatives that week. Rita and Kas had inherited their love for cats from their dad. They swooned over the newborns and swiftly took on the bulk of the kitten duty chores. The babies were so young, they needed round-the-clock care and bottle feeding.

The kittens’ health at first declined. They needed milk immediately, and Rita and Kas used eye droppers to give them fresh cows’ milk. The nutrient composition of cows’ milk is best suited to baby cows, however, and it irritated the kittens’ delicate digestive systems. They developed a serious case of diarrhea. It was a mess and became a growing challenge to keep the kittens clean and fed.

The sisters drove to town and visited a veterinarian. The doctor prescribed a product called Bitch’s Replacement Milk. Though formulated for puppies, its composition was closer to cat’s milk and would provide them with the nutrition needed to survive.

On a proper milk replacement and with a couple doses of Kaopectate, the kittens’ digestive issues slowly cleared. They started to gain weight. Their lives were saved, and the Welty family breathed a sigh of relief.

Kas and Rita readied their car to return to Nashville. Since Bob and Christine had their hands full with farm chores, the sisters decided to bring the kittens with them. They named the pair Chicken and Coop, an homage to their birthplace on the farm.

Luckily for me, Rita volunteered to adopt them.

When my mom arrived home and carried the babies inside, we became a five-cat household. Chicken and Coop integrated easily into our family. Because of the kittens’ youth, our three adult cats did not perceive them as a threat and paid little attention to them. I was about 10 years old at the time, and I instantly fell in love with the tabby pair. I played with them as often as possible in my free time.

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Chicken and Coop were sweet and loving cats their whole lives. They even tolerated my childish antics. Here I staged some photos on the piano with Chicken, Coop, Oatmeal Bear, and Oatmeal Puppy.

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When I was growing up, our cats were always inside/outside. Our house was set back from the road by about 400 feet, and we had 10 acres of property for our animals to explore. Unfortunately when she was about three years old, Coop was hit and killed by a passing car. Our family entered a period of mourning. Chicken mourned especially. Shortly after her sister’s death, I remember Chicken searching outside near our garage, meowing for her companion. No one meowed in reply.

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When a cat gets to know a family of five people and selects you as their favorite person, you know you are special. I was Chicken’s favorite person, and she was my favorite cat. I felt chosen.

Chicken loved me for two reasons. For one, I showered her with affection. And as I grew older, I learned to respect her boundaries.

Chicken was incredibly friendly and affectionate, but she never liked to be picked up. If you tried, she would stiffen up like a statue and even tremble sometimes. My mom theorized that the one or two times my grandparents helped with the kitten bottlefeeding, they may have accidentally dropped her. No physical harm was done, but Chicken was mentally imprinted with a fear of being dropped.

Once I understood this was a lifelong trait and not something I could change, I respectfully left Chicken on the ground. If I wanted her to come up to me, I coaxed her with sounds and by reaching my hand towards her.

Every evening as I prepared to go to sleep, Chicken would curl up at the bottom of my bed. She stayed there by my side until morning. If I woke up in the middle of the night and needed comfort, all I had to do was extend my hand and lightly snap my fingers. Chicken would walk up and put her head under my hand so I could pet her. I loved this about her.

Chicken lived long into her senior years. I consider her an integral part of my youth and my family, and I miss her still. I’m so thankful she was my friend.