“I’m at the emergency vet with Marigold.”

“She’s declining.”

I stared at the words on my phone but could not absorb them.

Marigold was our new kitten, an orange overcomer with a bonfire purr. She was the littlest survivor of a hoarding case. A former rescue had turned into a house of fear, with nearly 50 animals famished and languishing.

But the worst was supposed to be behind Marigold now.

She had leapt the Grand Canyon from “hopeless” to “healing.” She was a Tabby’s Place kitten. Her pixie-stick legs could grow plump. She could drop the armor she was too young to carry, and begin her overdue kittenhood.

“She’s declining.” 

I turned my phone face-down. This was not how the story was supposed to go. Marigold had already endured the Big Sadness. Now was her time to be little, for the first time. Her whole life had been confusion and endings. Now was the age of love and beginnings.

That’s why we nestled her in the care of an angel, although her business card says “Veterinary Technician.” There is no foster parent like Tabby’s Place’s Drew. She scoffs at sleep to coax the faint and fading back to life. She reclaims kittens from the point of no return.

Drew’s eyes overflowed with stars the moment she met Marigold.

When Drew heard that Marigold had a brother, she aligned the stars again. In the urgency of the rescue mission, the stronger sibling had gone to another organization. After huddling together all their lives, the tangerine tabbies were peeled apart.

But no mother could bear such a thing, and Drew and Tabby’s Place sprang back into action. Reunited, Marigold and Lotus clung to each other like gummy bears.

The sweet era was supposed to begin here.

“She’s declining.” 

We knew that Marigold was not well. This was how she became a Tabby’s Place cat. Of the hoarding survivors, we took the frail and threadbare. This is what we do. These are the lives we live for. They are “the least of these,” the last and the lost. They are love’s epicenter, where everything begins.

We did not know that Marigold was fading.

Pneumonia struck like lightning, leaving her sizzling with a fever of 105. Anemia drained her strength. A normal packed cell volume, or PCV (the proportion of red blood cells), is 30-45%. Marigold’s was 9%. Her gums turned pale as she lay faint in Drew’s hands.

“She’s declining.”

In love’s architecture, our hands are wider than any canyon. We stretch them across the gaps of grief and ditches of disease. We close our fingers over the little ones in our palms, taunting the storm: this one is ours, not yours.

Yet the smallness of kittens is larger than our hands, larger even than Drew’s invisible wings. Unconditional love could not keep Marigold from getting sick. Untiring devotion could not guarantee her survival.

But no force on Earth could keep Drew from racing Marigold to the emergency vet.

“I’m at the emergency vet with Marigold. She’s declining.” 

I reread the first sentence. It changed the second.

Marigold was declining, but Marigold was not in free-fall. She was at the emergency vet. She was in the place of midnight blood transfusions and mercy, beeping machines and amazing grace. She may have been scarcely conscious, but love was awake.

The Linda Fund was awake.

The Linda Fund is Tabby’s Place’s critical reserve for emergency care. At midnight, we dare not pause to pull out a calculator. This is the hour for love’s arithmetic to overwrite anemia and expectations.

As we hold a Marigold in our own small hands, we fall into the large arms of love together.

Last year’s Linda Fund was strong enough to catch us. If you gave, you were in the car that sped Marigold to the emergency vet. Your are there in the hands that are working on her as I type these words, battling her fever down and pulling her PCV out of quicksand. Your love for an unseen kitten is shining in her eyes, against all odds.

This year’s Linda Fund does not know the names of the cats and kittens yet to come. It only knows that they will come, sure as Marigolds, sure as the love that leads us by the hand when we can’t see more than one step in front of us.

“Marigold is going to stay another day.”

As you read these words, Marigold is remembering how good food tastes. Her citrus stripes wiggle at each soft touch.

She is not “out of the woods,” in that exhausted old expression, but life is doing its best to wake anew. We are praying she will soon be strong enough to come home to Drew’s arms, Lotus’s arms, and the kittenhood she deserves.

This is why we live.

This is why we Linda Fund.

If Marigold has touched your heart, your donation to the Linda Fund will support her care, and that of all the cats and kittens who will need emergency treatment over the next year. Your gift will be doubled through 9/30. Please donate and share her story as widely as you can. One of the most powerful things Tabby’s Place people can do for the cats is to urge your people to become Tabby’s Place people. Thank you, dear ones.

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