When I was diagnosed with cancer last year, I went through a period of feeling entitled. If I wanted something, I believed I should have it. I tried to heal myself with shoes, jewelry and kittens.

Yes, kittens. Two.Our cat had died six months earlier, and Jim and I had decided to wait to get another pet because we might be moving. But then came my diagnosis, and having a cat to cuddle with became something I missed even more. Jim, who was probably more freaked out about the cancer than I was, gave in without a fuss, even when I said I wanted two kittens.Enter Henry and Squeaker (courtesy the Carbon County Friends of Animals). While they look very much alike, they’re not from the same litter. Squeaker got his name because he squeaks. Henry was named after a cat from one of my books, but whose role was cut before publication. A friend, who had beta read the book, launched an all-out campaign to return Henry to his place among the pages. That didn’t happen, but as a concession to her, I named my youngest kitten Henry.From the start, these two have been little devils, and if I didn’t know better, I would have sworn they had wings. I even teased our vet about not clipping those wings when we had them fixed. I have found Squeaker walking across the top of an open door. Sitting on top of the refrigerator. Walking along the upstairs railing in our other house, and jumping from the second floor, through the railing, onto the fireplace mantel and then up onto the TV armoire for a nap. Henry was usually right behind him.When we moved into our new place this summer, it didn’t take long for Squeaker to figure out that if he jumped from the desk to the refrigerator, he could survey the kitchen from atop the cabinets. Of course, Henry was right behind him.Unfortunately, it turns out my cats don’t have wings after all.We woke up on a Saturday a few weeks ago and couldn’t find Squeaker, which was odd because he’s usually right between us when we wake. We looked everywhere, which was a task because there were still unpacked boxes stacked in different rooms and lots of hiding places.Fearing he might have gotten outside when my husband came home late the previous night, I stepped out onto the patio to look around the house and there he was, curled up on the wicker table where he would often nap on the old screened-in porch. He was shaking when I picked him up and brought him inside. I set him on the kitchen floor, and while he immediately went for his food and water, he was limping and his foot was swollen. We thought he’d been hit by a car.After rushing him to the emergency vet, it was determined that he had a broken foot and that he’d likely fallen from a tree, which sounded like something he’d do. He’d never been outside before, but climbing is his thing. Seven hours later, I brought him home with a red splint decorated with a skull and crossbones.After getting Squeaker somewhat settled (he was not happy with his splint), I realized there was no Henry. I couldn’t believe this could be happening again. I turned the house upside down. Nothing. I went to check the mail, and leaning up against the front door was a window screen. I raced upstairs, and sure enough, the window was open and the screen was missing. It didn’t take much to figure out that Squeaker had fallen out of the second-floor window and onto the sidewalk or the front steps. What I still couldn’t figure out was where Henry was. I could barely breathe as I scanned the street, seriously expecting to see his little body. I looked out the other front window and there he was, sitting on the roof of the porch, overlooking one of the busiest streets in Jim Thorpe. He’d gone out the open window and jumped over to the roof, where he was just chilling and enjoying the traffic.Hanging partway out the window, I called to him, knowing I’d probably only have one shot, and I would need to have a good hold on him so as not to drop him, but I was able to safely haul him inside.That was four weeks ago. Squeaker has been through three splints with a few weeks to go, while Henry keeps trying to figure out how to get back out onto the roof.Call me crazy, but I miss the good old days when I just had to yell at them to get off the refrigerator.