Welcome home, Yoshi!

There’s something delightfully chaotic about bringing a new kitten into your life. You can prepare as much as you like, clear the cords, hide the glassware, build the ideal napping spot, but you’re never quite ready for the tidal wave of zoomies, the midnight meows, or the gentle headbutts at dawn.

Just over a week ago, I adopted a grey and white kitten from my sister’s farm near Cranbrook, B.C. We were there for a family reunion and my grandmother’s funeral, bittersweet days filled with goodbyes and reconnections. Amidst all the emotional gravity, I found a small, soft reason to smile: a wide-eyed ball of curiosity with tiny paws and a surprisingly loud purr. I named him Yoshi, after the faithful green dinosaur from Mario, because something about his eager energy reminded me of a loyal sidekick. And let’s be honest, I’ve always had a soft spot for fictional creatures with attitude.

Bringing Yoshi home marked the beginning of what can only be described as an adorable trial by fire. Kitten-proofing the house turned into a full-blown operation. He tested the integrity of window screens, scaled the backs of chairs, and treated every moving foot as a personal challenge. My life became a constant dance of redirection and negotiation. Don’t scratch that. Don’t bite this. No, my face is not a toy.

Training Yoshi has been a lesson in patience and laughter. Treats and a gentle tone go a long way, but so does letting him explore and fail safely. One of his first triumphs was mastering the litter box with an almost smug sense of accomplishment. He now expects applause every time he exits, tail high and swagger on full display. 

Of course, the introduction of Yoshi meant upheaval for our resident cat, Zorro. Zorro is black, sleek, and far too dignified for kitten antics. He’s used to a quiet routine and a full bowl of food untouched by anyone but himself. So when Yoshi bounced in like an excited intern, Zorro was… less than thrilled.

Their first encounter was textbook feline drama. Zorro hissed, swatted the air without making contact, then fled the room with a theatrical tail flick. Yoshi, undeterred, chirped cheerfully and gave chase. For the first week, I played constant referee. We did slow introductions: door-sniffing, food on opposite sides of the room, short supervised visits. Yoshi, eager to be friends, kept trying to snuggle up. Zorro, determined to preserve his dignity, kept retreating to higher ground.

The biggest problem hasn’t been territory or aggression, it’s the food. Yoshi’s kitten kibble must taste like ambrosia to Zorro, who now acts like he’s starving every time I fill the tiny kitten bowl. I’ve caught him shoulder-checking Yoshi mid-snack like an NHL player going for a puck. I’ve had to get creative, feeding Yoshi while the other cat is napping or downstairs. Zorro, ever resourceful, has tried to sneak past, stage ambushes, and guilt-trip me with his most mournful yowls.

Still, something heartwarming has started to happen. Zorro sometimes watches Yoshi’s antics with what I can only describe as feline resignation. It’s not quite love, but it’s progress.

Yoshi has already turned our house into a home with his tiny paws, his oversized personality, and his fearless love for everything and everyone.

And while I still monitor every feeding like a border guard checking passports, I wouldn’t trade a second of it. Yoshi is a handful. He’s also a heartful.