It wouldn’t quite be fair to say I wasn’t considering adopting another cat, but I definitely wasn’t considering adopting two.

Turns out, life had other plans.

Ever since Ned’s passing two years ago, I’ve lived with four cats. Some people think this is a lot of cats, but it didn’t seem like a particularly large clowder to me. A few months ago, I considered adopting a diabetic ten-year-old tuxedo cat named Julio. The problem was that Julio is on a very strict diet to manage his diabetes. Since all my cats are grazers, there would be no way to keep him on his diet. So although he’s a lovely boy, I concluded that I wouldn’t be able to take him in.

The next possibility was a five-year-old blind cat named Owen. He’d been dumped in an apartment building parking lot. He was sleek, pewter-gray, and incredibly sweet. I was supposed to be writing his bio, but instead, I decided to adopt him. The next day, as I was completing an adoption application, I received an email advising me that Owen had died earlier that day. Apparently, he’d had an undiagnosed tumor on his spleen, and it burst that morning.

A few weeks ago, the shelter’s website showed Melody, a three-month-old kitten with a scarred eye. Since Charlotte also has a corneal scar, I thought briefly of adopting Melody, but I realized that this little kitten would not be a good match for a household with three super-seniors (ages 17, 16, and 15) plus Charlotte, age 9.

I’d pretty much set aside the notion of adding to my feline family when I received an email on a Saturday evening at the beginning of the month. The president of the shelter announced the passing of one of our volunteers, Elaine, and the need for someone to foster Elaine’s two elderly cats. And just like that, I knew.

Immediately, I emailed the president and said I’d take them. Adopting, not fostering. I kept thinking about what would happen to them if no one stepped up, how these two super-seniors would end their days in a shelter because no one would ever want such old cats, and I couldn’t bear it.

It took a few days to organize everything, but on Thursday, the head of the adoption team, Martha, took me to Cromwell where the cats were. Elaine was 80 years old; her husband is in his early 90s, and although relatives have been coming in to help, it was clear that caring for the cats was more than he could manage.

And so, Stella and Kallie now live with me. Stella is 16 years old, the same as my Rosie, but at 6-1/2 pounds, she’s half Rosie’s size. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Stella was barely out of kittenhood. Kallie, who isn’t much bigger, turned 19 last week. (Yes, I have a cat who is old enough to vote.)

It’s only been two weeks, but it feels as if we’ve been together for a long time. The ladies (as I call them) reside primarily in my office. This arrangement has a number of advantages, including the ability early in their residence to keep the door closed while they became situated and the others grew curious about what was going on. It helped that I was with them most of the day so they could grow to feel more comfortable not only with their surroundings, but with me. After a few days, I opened the door a bit while keeping the baby gate in place. Gradually, the door opened wider; then, I moved the baby gate to allow access if someone wanted to go in or out. It’s a process, to be sure.

Both ladies have distinctive personalities. Stella is a talker, but from the start, she ensconced herself in a bed on the treadmill desk where she’s safe from any cats who may wander into the room. Kallie likes to spend her days in the low perch next to my desk so I can pet her as I’m working. Stella likes to be petted on her head, but she doesn’t care to be touched on her body while Kallie adores being combed and groomed.

They also have their similarities. Both ladies are both amazingly agile for their ages, leaping effortlessly from the rug to their perches. For Kallie’s birthday, I gave them both catnip bananas, and they both reveled in this wonderful treat. It also turns out that they’re both shameless food thieves, each trying to filch turkey from my open-faced sandwich. Kallie is a bit more cautious about such thievery, but the time Stella did, she literally dashed up to the desk, grabbed a piece, and jumped to the floor before I could catch her. (I have since learned not to leave turkey unguarded.)

I wouldn’t say it’s all been smooth sailing, of course. Both ladies have litter box issues, and so my office is basically carpeted in housebreaking pads. Stella has an unspecified intestinal problem, meaning that she routinely produces very stinky poop puddles the texture of paint. Not only that, but at first, she didn’t bother getting into the litter box before making her deposits. A couple days after I brought them home, I took Stella to the vet to see what might be done. When we returned home, she climbed into the litter box to pee, and then marched across the room to make a poop puddle. The light bulb went on in my brain: while the puddle was medical, the failure to use the litter box was behavioral. Whatever her reasoning for going outside the box, it wasn’t because the diarrhea caused such urgency that she couldn’t make it in time.

So I started to praise her lavishly and give her a couple of crunchy treats whenever she did anything in the box. Since Stella is highly food motivated, bribing her with treats has helped tremendously. After two weeks, practically the only time she uses the housebreaking pads is during the overnight hours when I’m not in the room to be her cheerleader. We haven’t yet solved the medical aspect, but at this point, she’s on steroids (which, according to her former vet records, worked last spring), a probiotic, and Metamucil, and she just started an antibiotic because who knows? She’s also hyperthyroid and on meds for this, but I have no idea whether one condition affects the other. Fortunately, Stella is easy to pill although she swears a blue streak at me as I poke the pills down her tiny throat.

Kallie isn’t perfect in her litter box habits either, but at least hers isn’t a medical issue. In fact, if her vet records are accurate, this 19-year-old girl has no health problems at all. The only reason I haven’t completely signed on to this notion is that when I picked them up, both girls were very skinny and had mats. I suspect that in Elaine’s final weeks when her (very) elderly husband was trying to care for his dying wife, the cats may have been largely overlooked. According to Stella’s former vet, one of her meds ran out in July, and the other would have run out in late September. Understandable in light of everything, but it has meant some adjustments.

Now, two weeks into our lives together, everybody is progressing. Stella is extremely vocal, but it’s Kallie who’s been brave enough to wander out of the office when I’m out here. For the past couple days, I’ve kept the door and the gate open during the day to let my resident cats and the new ladies begin the process of getting to know one another.

I’m certain some people think I was crazy to take Stella and Kallie in (and I didn’t even know about the litter box issues). I now have five super-seniors plus Charlotte, the young punk kid. Olivia and Rosie have been on meds for a few years, and Danny has been on special food for about 12 years. I know that in five years, it’s likely that my household will look very different, but that’s how life goes. As I’ve told people many times, in person and when writing cat bios, nobody comes with a guarantee. Look at poor Owen, who was only five years old—younger than anybody in my house—and on the verge of going home when his tumor burst. There’s no predicting how long any of us will be here. I’m positive that when Elaine adopted Stella and Kallie nine years ago, when Stella was seven and Kallie was ten, she figured that she’d outlive them.

At first, people kept telling me I was an angel for taking in Stella and Kallie. I know they meant it as a compliment, but the saying irked me. I didn’t take the ladies in because I wanted a gold star or a jewel in my halo. I took them because I couldn’t not. I wanted them, pure and simple. I’d never met them—didn’t even know what they looked like—but as soon as I read that email, I knew they were meant to be mine. The day after I’d said I’d take them, Martha told me that Elaine’s husband was considering keeping Kallie, which left me stressed and panicked all week. When I left the house to go to meet Martha on Thursday, my palms were sweating. (For perspective: I have argued in front of the Connecticut Supreme Court with my hands perfectly dry.) I don’t recall what Martha said when we got to the house, but within moments, it was clear that both cats were coming home with me. It was the best decision for everybody.

And so, now there are seven of us—six cats and me. Certainly not what I expected. But there’s no question that this is exactly how we were meant to be.