The Neighborhood Animal Crisis Hotline (and the Law of Finders Keepers)

The little monks who came to test my spiritual readiness.

It started innocently — a few Ring notifications here and there. Somewhere between the lost dog on Canary Lane and the Chicken Snake Incident, my Ring app has evolved into a full-blown animal-rescue soap opera.

Every few minutes, a new headline appears:

“Wandering dog seen at Arlan’s parking lot.”
“Is anyone missing a Chihuahua? He’s sitting politely at my door.”
“White shit zu under a truck. Possibly meditating.”

Meanwhile, the Chicken Snake slithered past a “No Soliciting” sign and became a local celebrity — proof that enlightenment comes in many forms (and sometimes, scales).

And then there are the essays — neighbors writing heartfelt memoirs about refugee cats they’ve been feeding for three days.
They post tear-jerking photos and ask, “Should I find them a home?”

No, Karen. You found the cats. They found you.
That’s destiny — Finders Keepers Law, Article I, Section Me.
That’s how the geometry works in this neighborhood.

If they’ve been sleeping on your porch for three days, congratulations: you’ve been chosen.
That’s the sacred geometry of suburbia.

But the universe likes to remind me that it, too, has a sense of humor.
One afternoon, two tiny kittens appeared near my back door — trembling, angelic, clearly homeless. I called my friend at animal rescue, who said maybe the mother was out looking for food… but might not return.

So I did what any responsible adult goddess of home decor would do:
I went on a full rescue mission to Walmart.
I spent an hour curating the cutest little cages, reading cat food labels like I was adopting royalty. I chose toys, water bowls, blankets that color matched — the feline equivalent of a welcome basket from the Four Seasons.

And when I finally got home — radiant, benevolent, ready to open my heart and my wallet — while meanwhile, the cats have already Houdini’d back to the cosmos. Reminding me that even the strays have free will.

Just gone.
Like tiny monks who came only to test my spiritual readiness.

Now I understand the real geometry of it all:
Sometimes the strays find you.
Sometimes they just pass through to remind you that love, like cats, cannot be contained.

The feed has become a holy scroll of suburban compassion and chaos.
Everyone’s searching — for pets, for purpose, for closure.
And me? I’ve muted notifications, enlightened by the truth:
The animals have already chosen their people.