Today, we honor a very special feline friend, Nash. An amazing 18 month old colony cat who got to experience true physical human love and kindness as an indoor cat for just a very short 13 days.
As his Pawtectors, we were so lucky to share in his life and protect him with all our love the 14 months as his colony caretaker until he made the decision to be part of our family inside. Sometimes, though, we have to say goodbye much sooner than we’re ever ready for. It’s never easy, but Nash’s story is a gentle reminder to show kindness and love every single day and to treasure every moment we have with those we care about – animals and humans.
This tribute is our way to celebrate Nash by living with the same joy and love he brought into my family’s lives. 💛
FUREVER is NOT LONG ENOUGH – A Tribute to “Nash”, the 18 month old wonder kitty!
When my daughter told me about 2-3 young cats struggling to survive off garbage scraps behind a local 7-11 store’s dumpster, I knew I had to help. Animal rescue is my passion, and has been the past 15+ years. Community cats, TNR (trap-neuter-release) and helping socialize to adopt colony adult friendlies and young kittens is at the heart of my rescue endeavors. It was mid February and I set up a feeding station to show them that there would be a consistent daily source of food and water. I even built shelters nearby—safe, warm little havens for the winter. But they remained untouched. That’s common with colony cats; their survival instincts make them wary of anything new, and their mistrust of humans runs deep.
I set up trail cameras in my feeding station to try and monitor how many cats were actually at this location, and their feeding patterns. There were three – all relatively young (probably 3-4 months old) and thankfully a healthy appearance overall. Sadly, no right ear tips (the universal sign that an outdoor cat has been spayed/neutered). A very handsome silver tabby and a beautiful brown tabby, which have been common colorings in so many of my cat colonies. Then there was Nash had a coat as golden as the sun, with a stunning black streak running boldly down his back, four perfect black boots, and the biggest lion’s mane you ever saw. He was the kind of cat that made you stop and stare—a majestic figure, even in a place as unassuming as the wooded lot behind the 7-11. The natural thought process of my TNR trapper mind, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was a stray or was dumped. Honestly, that was secondary, my primary focus was the spay/neuter of these 3 cats before one might be pregnant or a male decided to roam looking for a one night stand.
Within two weeks, I decided it was time to try and trap the three cats I knew were my frequent visitors. We were already at the start of kitten season, and this precarious location due to a very high traffic major intersection was not safe for cats, let alone any future baby kittens. I carefully placed my three humane box traps, strategically arranged under the glow of a full March moon, and baited them with two cans of the stinkiest tuna I could find. I held my breath and hoped hunger outweighed caution about these strange new contraptions next to their feeding station.
1-2-3… success. All three of my young feline friends were safely trapped.
There was a beautiful grey tabby I named Sterling (after the city where he was found), a brown tabby—originally mistaken for a male—I named Brooklyn, and then there was Nash. Nash was the most stunning of them all, an extra-long-haired tortie-looking cat that I had initially thought was female. I named him after my love of Nashville and country music. Turns out Nash was a boy, and Brooklyn was the girl. But it didn’t matter—what mattered was that there would be no kittens in this 7-11 location, not from these three.
They stayed with me for two days before their clinic appointments for spay/neuter, microchips, rabies vaccinations, and deworming. Afterward, they spent three days recovering in my home—the rain was relentless that week, and I couldn’t risk complications with their incisions in the mucky weather. Needless to say, all three were eager to return to their domain once the time came. Based on my short time with them during their recovery inside, they were not eager to welcome much human contact, and I honored their decision. Nash, Brooklyn and Sterling were all very happy the night of their release. However, I didn’t visually see them for the next 10 days. Daily food disappeared so I knew someone was returning.
To monitor their activity, I set up trail cameras near the feeding station. Sterling and Brooklyn were clearly bonded—inseparable, always together. Nash, on the other hand, was a bit of a loner, often appearing solo. Still, I loved watching them come to eat under the cover of night, though my heart skipped a beat every time the local coyote pup showed up for a midnight snack of the cat food I left.
By this time, their wooded sanctuary they called home was soon to be non-existent. The lot was being leveled to make way for yet another massive data center—one of many popping up like weeds across our county, where technology comes at a heartbreaking price. Day after day, I witnessed innocent woodland animals losing their lives to the adjacent road as construction encroached on their home. It made me watch Nash, Sterling, and Brooklyn with even greater care.
It had been a year by this point, and every time I called their names, the cats would emerge as if from thin air. Who says cats don’t know their names? They knew mine. They knew I was the kind human who arrived each day with deli meat treats, alongside their canned and dry food.
That summer hit fast and hard, bringing relentless heat. I started noticing Nash’s long, slinky coat was turning into a tangled, matted mess. It was filled with burrs and small sticks from the weeds that now served as his shelter. His other refuge was the massive underground drain pipes—each about four feet in diameter—that were part of the infrastructure for the data center being built nearby. These pipes opened into a retention pond surrounded by boulders the size of mini-fridges.
Thankfully, rain had been infrequent, but then came three days of nonstop storms. On the third day, I arrived at the site to feed and froze. There, in the middle of the now-flooded retention area, stood Nash. He was perched desperately on a boulder, trying to stand tall as the rising water closed in around him. How he got there was a mystery, but I knew he was trapped. The drop was at least 18 feet, and there was no way for me to reach him.
I called out to him, letting him know I was there. His desperate meows echoed back to me, as if to say, “I need you!” I scrambled for help, calling the fire department, animal control, and even the police, but no one could assist. My heart shattered as I called to Nash one last time. “I’m trying to help you, little one. Stay safe. I’ll be back!”
I had no choice but to leave. The drive home was gut-wrenching, my stomach tied in knots as I imagined him stranded on that tiny rock island. For the next three days, I showed up as always, calling his name and watching the cameras. Nothing. Nash didn’t appear. My heart sank further with every passing day. I prayed for him, fearing the worst had happened.
On the fourth day, I returned just before sunset. Out of habit, I called his name, not expecting a reply. Then I heard it—faint but unmistakable. A deep, familiar meow. My heart leapt as I called again, and the sound grew stronger, echoing from deep within the drain pipe under the construction site. I kept calling, my voice trembling, and then I saw him. Nash’s head appeared at the opening of the pipe, his eyes meeting mine. He was standing ankle-deep in water, drenched but alive.
Tears of relief streamed down my face as I told him over and over, “I’m here. I’ll always be here for you.” He answered each call with his deep, steady meow—a sound I had feared I would never hear again. But just as quickly as he appeared, he disappeared back into the shadows of the pipe. My heart sank again, but I didn’t stop calling.
Much to my surprise, moments later Nash reappeared, this time on ground level, just 10 feet from me in the tall weeds. He meowed strongly, his voice matching mine, as if to say, “I’m here, I’m coming!” I tossed small pieces of the deli turkey I’d brought, and at first, he ran—but then he turned back, cautiously grabbing the treat. It was a tiny moment of victory, one that filled me with hope. Nash was resilient, and he wasn’t ready to give up. And neither was I.
From that day on, Nash and I had a ritual. I’d call his name, and he’d come running across the construction site, meowing as if to say, “I’m coming! Don’t leave yet!” It was our special bond. I knew there was something extraordinary about him. I was in the process of trapping a huge colony of 13 adult cats including 4 super friendly nursing queens (female cats), and their combined 24 kittens (ages 2-1/2 to 4 weeks at the time). As much as I wanted to give Nash a chance inside, it simply wasn’t the time as my home had turned into “Casa Kittens”. I told him daily, that he was the very next on my list to bring inside, when there was finally room in my house.
Summer turned into Fall which quickly led to November. All but 2 of my 27 feline foster houseguests had been adopted and I was anxious to focus my attention on trying to socialize Nash. By Thanksgiving week, as the temperatures dipped into the low 30s, I knew it was time. Nash had spent 14 months surviving on his own. It was his turn to experience the safety and warmth of indoor life. I called to him as usual, but this time, I didn’t leave. When he approached, I tentatively reached out my hand. To my amazement, he purred instantly, rising up on his back legs to nuzzle my hand and make biscuits in the air.
Colony cats can be so guarded, their survival instincts telling them to resist human touch. It’s part of what keeps them alive in a world that’s not always kind. But not Nash. He was ready, and so was I. I whispered to him, “It’s time, sweet boy. You’re coming home.”
From that day on, Nash and I had a ritual. I’d call his name, and he’d come bounding across the construction site, meowing as if to say, “I’m coming! Don’t leave yet!” It was our special bond, one I treasured more with each passing day. There was something extraordinary about him—a resilience wrapped in gentleness—that set him apart.
By Thanksgiving week, as the temperatures plunged into the low 30s, I knew it was time. Nash had spent 14 long months surviving on his own, but now it was his turn to know the safety and warmth of an indoor life. I called to him as usual, and this time, I didn’t leave. When he approached me, I reached out, hesitant yet hopeful. To my amazement, he purred instantly, rising onto his back legs to nuzzle my hand and make air biscuits with joy.
For 14 months, Nash had no close interaction with humans, and yet here he was, ready to trust. My heart swelled as his purrs grew louder and louder, vibrating through me like a song of hope. I spent those moments showering him with love, telling him we had so much time to make up for. I whispered over and over how loved he was, how safe he would be if he gave me the chance to bring him inside.
The first attempt didn’t go as planned. I brought a big cat carrier, and the sight of it startled him. In a flash, he ran off into the night. I knew then that I needed to take a gentler approach. I couldn’t risk scaring him so badly that he’d disappear or avoid me indefinitely. It happens too often in my world of TNR (Trap-Neuter-Release), so I skipped a night to let him settle and regroup.
The next time, I tried something different. I placed my large cat carrier right next to his food plate with the door wide open. I set the food just at the entrance, hoping it would look more like a strange new shelter than a trap. Nash was already waiting when I arrived, as if he knew this night was special. I told him out loud, “Tonight’s your big night, sweet boy. The first day of the rest of your forever home life.”
He meowed back immediately, already in full “chatty cat” mode, running to greet me in the tall weeds where we always started our turkey dance. The night was freezing, frost hanging in the air. I could even see his breath as he meowed—a tiny reminder of the cold he had endured for far too long, and what the winter had in store if he stayed outside any longer.
This night felt different. Nash let me pet him right away, his purrs echoing through the crisp air. It had started to drizzle sleet, and I silently prayed for a quick and successful rescue. Gently, I tossed bits of turkey toward the carrier, coaxing him closer. At first, he hesitated — but hunger won. He stepped toward the carrier, cautiously sniffing at the food inside.
I held my breath as he crept closer to the back by the food. Then, in one fluid motion, I pushed him gently inside and shut the door. My heart pounded in my chest as I worked quickly to latch and lock it. I knew I only had seconds. One slip, and Nash could bolt back into the night—and my chance to save him could be lost for weeks, maybe months.
But Nash surprised me. As the door clicked shut, he settled quietly onto the soft towel I had placed inside the carrier. It was as if he knew. Nash’s reaction was the same one I’d seen in other colony cats who had once been “friendlies.” There’s this incredible moment when they realize they’re safe—that they don’t have to fight anymore. Nash knew, and my heart overflowed with relief and joy.
As I caught my breath, I felt the weight of what had just happened. My heart overflowed with excitement, happiness, and relief. Nash would never again have to face another frigid night in a construction site drain or another desperate encounter on his flooded boulder island. Now, he would know love—true, constant love—24/7, just as he had experienced during those precious 10 days of human touch.
I whispered softly to him through the carrier door, “This is it, Nash. You’re home now. You’re safe.”
He sat quietly in the back of my car, the classical music station playing softly—a little trick I’ve always used to help keep my animal transports calm. I made sure the car was warm and cozy for the short 20-minute drive home.
In hopeful anticipation of a successful trapping, I had already prepared Nash’s temporary acclimation space. A double-door 48-inch dog crate stood ready in my master bathroom, complete with a litter box, soft plush blankets, food, and fresh water. The salt crystal lamps cast a calming glow, and classical music drifted softly in the background. This was my go-to method for socializing colony cats—a safe, confined space where they could decompress, adapt to the indoors, and decide whether they were ready to trust.
With cats like Nash, this moment is a test. Some settle in beautifully, while others panic, feeling trapped like a wild animal. Those cats require constant monitoring to ensure they don’t injure themselves trying to escape. But Nash? Nash was a dream.
I placed him into the crate effortlessly, and he immediately snuggled into the plush folds of the blanket, as though he had been waiting for this his whole life. I sat with him, softly talking and rubbing his chin and ears for 30 straight minutes. That’s when he resumed his rightful title as the “Greatest Biscuit Maker” of 2024. His paws kneaded the blanket with such joy and contentment that I knew he was right where he belonged.
Then I noticed something else—his fur. His magnificent coat was so covered with mats, twisted together with over 100 sharp burrs that clung tightly to his body. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I also knew Nash was different. There was a kindness in his eyes, a willingness, a trust that spoke volumes. I decided to take a leap of faith. Gently, I began snipping and combing through the tangled mess with tiny scissors. To my surprise, Nash purred through the entire process.
Feeling encouraged, I took another chance. I scooped him up and placed him on a towel in my lap—a monumental first for a cat who, just 30 minutes earlier, had never experienced human contact beyond those brief outdoor interactions. Nash didn’t resist. He curled into my lap like he had always belonged there, purring louder than ever. Tears welled in my eyes as I realized the enormity of this moment. In that instant, I knew I had transformed his life—and he had transformed mine. Nash was ready for his new chapter as an indoor cat in a loving forever home.
Unfortunately, what I didn’t know was that the universe had a very different plan.
The next day, my local rescue partner and all my fellow cat-loving friends fell in love with him. Everyone had followed Nash’s story and antics over the past year, and he had captured their hearts just as he had captured mine. I could already feel myself teetering dangerously close to becoming a “foster failure” (a title I wear proudly when it happens). But it was still too early to decide.
We took Nash for a routine vet visit that same day. He received his rabies booster and weighed in at 9.6 pounds—more fluff than substance, as it turned out. Then came the moment every rescuer dreads: the heart-stopping COMBO TEST. This standard blood test checks for FIV (feline immunodeficiency virus) and FeLV (feline leukemia virus)—two conditions that can decide a rescued cat’s fate. For cats coming from the outdoors, it’s a long, agonizing 10-15 minutes of waiting. For some, the results are a matter of life or death, determining whether they’ll be seen as adoptable or overlooked. And for colony cats, a positive test often means euthanasia—a heartbreaking reality, though that’s a story for another day.
I held my breath, praying silently for a miracle. When the results came back negative, my heart skipped a beat. Nash had done it. Against all odds, he had managed to stay safe from internal harm during his time outdoors. He had just won the ultimate lottery of life: negative combo test, healthy, and now on his way to being an indoor-only cat forever.
That night, Nash’s crate became just a temporary pit stop. With his clean bill of health, he could safely meet some of my own cats—my welcoming committee of resident felines. I knew they would greet him with open paws and show him what it truly meant to be home.
The first 24 hours were a bit challenging, as expected. He didn’t quite understand windows, doors, or the concept of walls—a natural transition for colony cats brought indoors. But once he discovered the big, floofy cat bed, it was purr city. Nash became a biscuit-making machine, kneading the blankets and drooling with bliss. If you’ve never seen a cat drool, let me tell you—it’s the ultimate compliment. For a cat, it’s like when you see or smell food so enticing that your mouth waters. Not all cats do it, but for those that do, it’s an unmistakable sign of sheer happiness.
Nash was adjusting beautifully to his new life. Each day, he became more comfortable. He loved being held, was the biggest cuddler, and quickly claimed the fabric basket next to my pillow as his favorite sleeping spot. I’d lay my hand on his paw as we both drifted off to sleep to the soothing sounds of mindful meditation music with healing frequencies. Life was perfect.
Seven days inside and I felt confident Nash was happy and thriving. I had to leave for five days to visit my parents out of state, and though it was hard being away from my fur babies, I knew they were in good hands. My adult daughter, a fellow cat whisperer and expert, lives with me and ran our little kitty city while I was gone. I was excited to go see family but would be equally excited to come home, especially to see Nash.
When I returned, Nash and the others had made a sanctuary under my bed. My daughter had placed cozy blankets there to keep them warm and entertained with little forts for play. I pulled Nash out from his blanket hideaway, and he immediately started purring and drooling as he always did. We spent a quiet, joyful hour together, reconnecting. I was so happy to be back.
The next morning, though, something felt off. Nash didn’t come running like he usually did. He seemed tired, which wasn’t like him. The house was a bit chillier than usual with the dropping temperatures, so I bundled up all the cats in their beds, added a space heater, and settled back into catching up on work. That evening, Nash wasn’t much interested in dinner. Instead, he just wanted to cuddle. I happily obliged, holding him close as he purred softly, though his eyes had a distant stare I couldn’t quite shake.
I texted my rescue partner that evening to give her an update, telling her how well Nash was doing and how he’d soon be ready for adoption in the new year. Secretly, I wanted to keep him for the holidays. I had already picked out his stocking and personalized ornament, alongside those of my other fur babies. But as I watched him that night, something was unsettling to me. Nash seemed more lethargic than usual. It was nearly midnight, so I made a mental note to check on him first thing in the morning.
At 4:30 a.m., my internal alarm jolted me awake. I turned on the light and immediately went looking for Nash. He was still on the blanket where I’d left him the night before, but something was wrong. His fur felt icy cold to the touch. He was alive but very still and quiet. At 5:15 a.m., I saw a text from my rescue partner thanking me for the check-in the night before. I responded immediately, sharing my growing concern about Nash’s condition. We ran through the standard rescue protocols for cats who seemed a little under the weather, but there were no obvious signs of distress—no injuries, no visible illness. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.
I bundled him under a big blanket with a heating pad, snuggling him close to warm his little body. Nash seemed content to be in my arms, but my instincts were on high alert. When I gently tried to pet him, he let out faint, heartbreaking meows. His body temperature hovered around 95 degrees, dangerously below normal for a cat. I knew he needed to be seen by a vet as soon as the clinic opened.
Nash seemed to know something was wrong, too. The signs began to appear one by one. He refused his favorite bisque. He grew restless, no longer wanting to be held. With small, tired meows, he jumped from my lap, only to lie down again, his body still and quiet. My heart ached as I watched him, knowing that my sweet, resilient boy was facing yet another battle—one I didn’t yet understand.
I texted my rescue partner, my heart sinking as I wrote, “I think I’m losing him.” We rushed Nash to the emergency vet hospital, where they were waiting for the cardiologist to assess him. There were concerns it might be a heart issue. I got in my car to drive away but stopped halfway down the road, a nagging thought pulling at me—I hadn’t told Nash I was coming back. I turned around, went back inside, and the staff allowed me into critical care to see him.
There he was, wrapped in blankets, an IV catheter in place as they tried to regulate his body temperature. When he heard my voice, Nash opened his eyes, and they opened the kennel for me to be with him. I leaned in, kissing him repeatedly, whispering over and over how much I loved him. “I’m coming back for you soon, sweet boy. I promise. The doctor just needs to figure out how to help you.” The staff understood his story—that I was the only human Nash had ever trusted, the one who had been there for him when no one else had been. Like the day I promised him on the flooded boulder, I was here for him now. I left my cell number at the front desk, explaining that Nash had been admitted under the rescue partner’s organization, but if anything happened, I needed to be there immediately.
The dreaded text came an hour after I got home. My heart paused when I read the words—“His heart is failing.” Love alone couldn’t conquer a genetic defect. At just 18 months old, my incredible Nash, one of the all-time loves of my life, was losing his fight. His “forever” chapter was closing after just 13 short days.
My daughter and I rushed back to the clinic. Nash was peaceful, swaddled warmly, as if he knew we were there to comfort him. We spent the next hour loving him, kissing him, and telling him what a strong, resilient boy he was. I told him he was officially part of our family and that he would always hold a place in our hearts. This cat, who had survived a harsh and unfriendly world, must have known his time was short—perhaps that was why he willingly walked into my carrier two weeks earlier, ready for love.
The cardiologist confirmed the devastating truth: half of Nash’s heart was too thick, the other half too thin, and a major blockage, likely a clot, was causing his symptoms. There was nothing anyone could have done to save him. Life, I realized again, is not fair—to animals, to humans, to anyone. Sometimes, no matter how much we love or how hard we try, we have no control over the master plan.
As we said our final goodbyes, we talked to Nash about all the fur babies who would be waiting to greet him at the Rainbow Bridge. We listed each one by name, sharing their personalities so he’d be prepared to meet them. Then I told him about Rachel—my best friend, my angel who passed far too soon before her 50th birthday. She was one of the greatest animal lovers I ever knew. I whispered to Nash that Rachel would be there to greet him, to hold him close and share hugs for me until we met again.
With tears streaming, I hugged him tightly one last time and asked him to visit me often, to show me signs that his spirit was still with us, and to know that he would always leave pawprints on my heart. When the vet quietly told us, “He’s gone,” I felt an overwhelming stillness in my own world.
As one final gesture, my daughter and I followed a ritual we always perform: we asked to take Nash’s body outside, where we could release his soul to the heavens. The vet tech, moved to tears, stood with us as we did so. It’s a small act, but for us, it means everything. No matter how many times I experience this kind of loss, it never gets easier. In rescue, I know some people become desensitized to the pain and grief because it happens far too often. But I fall into the category of those who feel it deeply, each and every time. The loss is raw, overwhelming, and unforgettable. Years may pass, but the weight of an animal’s absence never truly leaves you.
On the drive home, we asked Nash to show us signs that he was still with us, now in a healthier, happier form. And in the span of just 20 minutes, we experienced three unique cat moments—moments so profound and timely that we knew Nash was letting us know he was okay.
Nash, you taught me what it means to live fully in the moment. The past year caring for you outside felt like forever, yet those last 13 days passed in the blink of an eye. Forever is truly not long enough. We will miss your sweet, gentle soul every single day. Thank you for choosing me to be your rescue angel on earth. You will always be with me. I love you til there are no more stars in heaven.
Rest in peace, my sweet boy Nash. You have left pawprints on my heart forever. December 16, 2024.
🌱 WHERE KINDNESS SUPERHEROES GROW
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