My name is Allie, and I foster 12 cats at a time.
Last summer, I sat on my bathroom floor at 2am watching three foster kittens barely breathing.
Mochi, Sushi, and Wasabi. Eight weeks old. Tiny, fragile, rescued from a hoarding situation just two weeks earlier.
They weren't moving. Their eyes were glazed over. Their breathing was so shallow I could barely see their chests rise.
They'd been fine twelve hours earlier.
Now they were dying from the flea treatment my rescue coordinator told me was safe.
I foster cats for a local rescue. At any given time, I have 10-12 cats in my home. Adult cats waiting for adoption. Bonded pairs. Senior cats. Kittens too young to be adopted yet.
That night, I had twelve.
And eight of them were showing signs of poisoning.
The three kittens were the worst. Their tiny bodies couldn't handle the chemicals.
Two adult cats were drooling thick foam. One senior cat was trembling and wouldn't stand.
Two more were lethargic, staring at walls, unresponsive.
I thought I'd killed them all.