Two monarchs are fluttering around the backyard.

The chickens just returned to their coop after pecking around outside while I did yard work. I left them alone for five minutes to go to another part of the backyard. While I was gone, one of them perched on the open door to the coop, which then swung closed. When I came back to check on them, the hen was hanging upside down by one toe. The other hens had gathered around her, watching what looked like a public execution. All of them were completely silent.

Many times, a breeze, or a disturbance I can’t detect, sends the flock squawking and flying awkwardly around the yard. This time, when one of them actually needed help, none of them made a sound.

I lifted her, opened the door to free her toe, and cradled her for a while as she told me with soft clucks what had happened. Eventually I set her down and she walked away. Hopefully, no lasting injuries.

The flowers are more, and bigger, and better than they ever have been. I’ve been coping with the complete insanity and mayhem in the world by gardening the shit out of my plot of land.

During the day, birds swoop in and out of the bushes and peck seeds from the flowers. My favorites are the American goldfinches. Bees hover among the blooms. Giant orange sunflowers tower in the front yard. I wandered around, picking chamomile, lavender, citronella, oregano, thyme, and mint. I cut them up and sprinkled them around the chicken coop to take care of the chicken smell. Urban chickens, although they won’t know the difference, ought to have some amenities.

Citronella and lavender scraps went in the garbage can to freshen it up.

Clothes hang on the clothesline.

Two of my tomatoes plants are thriving. Four are doing moderately well. Three look terrible and aren’t dead but refuse to grow. I know not everything I plant will thrive. However, two tomatoes are planted next to each other in the same dirt and the same sun exposure. One is leaping upward, while the other has the same number of leaves as when I got it in April. When my gardening efforts fail, I’d like to problem solve and learn something, but this dilemma doesn’t even make sense.

Every week, I tear up a little more grass, and transplant more perennials, scooping up escapees from the back wildflower beds into the new bare spots. I added rain barrels after last summer when it didn’t rain for so long that I used all the rain barrel water and had to rely on the hose.

Why does that matter? Rain barrel water ends up with organic matter in it. It serves the function of compost tea, and the plants love it. Plus, it’s free. It’s easier to water the plants with the hose, but I like walking around with the watering can and just hitting the plants that need a little extra support.

There’s also an underlying knowledge that with the climate catastrophe looming, I can’t always count on there being unlimited running water. If there comes a time where we have to choose between taking showers and washing the dishes or watering the plants, I want a backup plan.

Three days ago, I was providing moral support to one kid when another called. When I saw her face, I said, “No,” before she had a chance to ask. I just knew.

The kids have tried to get me before. This time, my kid used all the magic words: “We found a cat. We think she’s pregnant. She’s in labor. She may have been hit by a car.”

My other kid: “Don’t move. We’re coming.”

The first kid: “I’ll send you a pin with my location.”

We grabbed a laundry basket, some old towels, and headed to our sister city, to an alley behind a school bus parking lot. Why was my kid there? How did they find the cat? Details are sketchy. But there it was, dirty, wet after a rainy day, lying there. She would periodically writhe, which my kid’s friend, who has seen this before, said were contractions. Her belly was huge.

We got her into the basket, stashed her in the car, and started for home. How long are cats in labor? 4-16 hours, the internet said. What should we do for her? Provide her with a dark, safe place, and stay nearby. I felt a bit weird about moving her so far from where she’d been found – she had a flea collar with reflectors on it, albeit an old, dirty one. Plus, she was too friendly not to belong to someone – but we have neighbors who dumped a cat because it got pregnant, and so we knew it was possible she’d suffered a similar fate.

We put her in our living room, still in the basket, and quietly kept vigil. She would still periodically try to get up, start to move, and then stop struggling and lay back down. Before bed, we moved her to a side room and bungee’d the door to keep the other cats out. We left her with food and water, and a spare litter box from the basement.

When the Chaplain arrived home, he poked his head into the room, and looked down at the basket. He looked at me. “Shall we go for a walk?” I asked. While we were out, I prefaced by telling him what we’ve always said when a kid tries to bring another cat home – we’re maxed out at four, we can’t keep her. Then I told him all the key words my kid had used “Pregnant. In labor. Hit by a car.” Even then, as I told the Chaplain, I was suspicious about whether any of those things were true. “Ok,” the Chaplain said, “I’m surrendering to the universe on this one.”Let’s just give it a day, I said. I’ll call some shelters in the morning.

In the morning, there were no kittens. The cat was still in the basket, but there was pee in the litter box.

When I watched her try to get up, it was clear something was wrong. It seemed like one of her legs wasn’t working. So if she wasn’t pregnant, *had* she been hit by a car, maybe broken her leg?

The shelter didn’t open till noon. I posted her online as “found.” I called our vet. $400 for two x-rays and an exam, they said. They had one appointment available, in an hour, 45 mins before the shelter would open. I dithered a bit, looked at her again, called them three times – where could we surrender her? What if she’s pregnant? If the leg is broken, could they just splint it (and save us the cost of x-rays for a stray cat we can’t keep)? No, they said they couldn’t do that.

I called a cat rescue and left a message. Be patient, the greeting said, we’re an all volunteer organization. Something in my gut had told me, even the night before, that there wouldn’t be a place for her.

We showed up to the vet, cat still in the laundry basket. She hated being moved, braced herself like her whole world was tilting. They took her to the back, did a physical exam. They drew blood, set her on the floor to see if she could walk. She could only scoot backward on her butt.

The vet seemed fascinated by the cat. She’s an older cat, they said. No broken bones, so it didn’t make sense to do xrays. Her labs were ok, except her liver. Which could mean she ate something toxic while she was outside and was processing it, or it could mean something was wrong with her liver, and if that was the case, they would recommend euthanizing her. It felt ridiculous, but I teared up thinking about it, looking at this cat who had been in our care for less than a day.

They gave her IV fluids to help flush her out, tested her for feline leukemia (negative). Gave her a treatment for fleas. Maybe it was vestibular? Neuromuscular? Keep her someplace separate, with food, water, litter, and quiet, and see what happens, the vet advised.

So we brought her back home. We laid down a yoga mat at the vet tech’s recommendation, so she wouldn’t be stuck in the basket. She tried to get up, took a wobbly attempt at a turn about the room, but her back legs slid out to the sides and she didn’t get far. She parked herself on the mat and spent most of the day resting, with visits from the fam in between. We combed her with a flea comb and got rid of dirt and seeds, but didn’t find any fleas. With clean fur, the musty, damp cat smell went away and her fur grew soft.

As she had been from the beginning, she was sweet and friendly with everyone, wanting to be petted, purring and making biscuits.

By that evening, the Chaplain was using her pronouns. “Can we keep her?” the kids would ask me quietly. I’m a sucker, I know I am, and the Chaplain is the one who will stay strong. I don’t know, I would say, we really can’t have another cat. I don’t think your dad will go for it.

The next morning, she got up again – but this time, her back legs slid a little less and she was able to walk around a bit. We went to the pet store and got some supplies – a mat for in front of the litter box, a scoop, a tray for her food bowls. “If we got her stuff, that means we’re keeping her,” my youngest said. We started talking about names.

That evening, the Chaplain came home. “It looks like we’re keeping her,” he said. He left the room. I looked at the kid who was sitting with the cat. We looked at each other, wide eyed, gesticulated and grinned and silently mouthed, “did you hear that?!” to each other.

This morning, she got up and rubbed against my leg when I came to see her. She’s still pretty unsteady, and spends most of her time lying around.

We’ve become that house – seven kids, five cats, and a flock of chickens. Our yard is full of birds and bugs.

I feel fear, grief, and helplessness at the violence in the world. The dismembered bodies of Palestinians are still showing up on my feed, months after the “ceasefire.” Tiny kids wander among twisted bodies, mothers wail over dead children. The IDF is committing genocide by targeting children, the UN says.

So I’m creating a sanctuary here. There are pumpkins, peppers, herbs, and pollinator houses. The world is not safe, but I’ll try to make a small safe place for the creatures who can find us.

Maybe this year, after more than a decade of tending and spreading the milkweed that popped up in our yard, one of the monarchs will lay her eggs on its leaves and the kids will get to participate in that magical life cycle.Maybe Mimsy Pancake will learn to walk like a normal cat. Maybe we will change our minds and give her a normal name.

Maybe the birds will fuel their migration with the seeds from the sunflowers.

Hopefully the pleasant chaos of the garden will bring joy to the neighbors and folks passing through.

Maybe, I’m in over my head.

This is the way I know how to build community – not just with other people, but with the natural world. It’s what I can do, so I’m going to do it.