44 THE NEW BARKER 
I have a cat named Grimm. He was aban-
doned in Philadelphia by his former person, 
who turned him out when her landlord 
found out she had a cat. My daughter rescued 
him and brought him to us. Grimm spent the 
first week or so under the bed, slowly came 
out, and then discovered the sink. He now has 
one overriding goal in life: sink water. 
      I decided to keep a count of how much 
water Grimm demanded and how often I 
obliged. Some people keep a fitness or calorie 
journal. I kept a tab open on my phone for 
Grimm’s water requests. The result? In 2025 
alone, Grimm asked for water 2,361 times. 
And yes — I turned on the faucet 2,361 
times. (Rescuers, you need not worry. His 
kidneys are fine; he’s been given a clean bill of 
health. Grimm is merely a hydration enthusi-
ast, the feline equivalent of a GenZer lugging 
around an oversized water bottle.) 
      Like Adam and Chubbles, his brothers, 
Grimm has a perfectly good water bowl. It’s 
pretty (gold in the winter and a blue ceramic 
to keep the water cool in the summer). It is 
washed daily. The water is always fresh. But to 
Grimm, this bowl is merely decorative. The 
only acceptable form of drinking water is 
running water from the sink. 
      Morning, noon, night: If he so much as 
suspects there is a drop of H2O waiting to 
run, he will find you. And he will ask. And the 
sinks must vary. Sometimes he wants kitchen 
sink water. Sometimes he wants bathroom 
sink water. Sometimes he wants water from a 
different bathroom sink. 2,361 times. I am the 
human embodiment of a water pump. 
      While tracking Grimm’s faucet requests, I 
also kept a few other statistics, like the litter 
box — a duty we all know intimately in the 
rescue world. In 2025, I scooped the litter box 
2,571 times. That’s a lot of scooping. 
      I realize that an article about 2,361 drinks 
from the sink and 2,571 scoops of a litter box 
is somewhat odd. But for those of us who’ve 
worked in shelters or do rescue, those num-
bers speak of care and the tiny lives entrusted 
to us. They tell us to wake up early, go to bed 
late, and do the work because someone has to. 
And they remind us that acquiescing to little 
absurdities is important because animals find 
comfort in routines. Besides, little things make 
big memories. Years from now, I might not 
recall a lot, but I will remember Grimm and 
his insatiable need to have water cascade off 
his face and down the drain. 
      To the people reading this — who spend 
days filling water bowls, scooping litter, clean-
ing runs, comforting frightened animals, 
walking dogs, racing to the emergency vet, 
advocating for a more compassionate world, 
and turning bathrooms and spare rooms into 
rehab facilities — you know the work we do 
is very serious. We deal with heartbreaking 
cruelty, neglect, and loss. 
      Yet on any given day, we also witness pro-
found joy: that first purr, the first time the tail 
comes out from under the dog and wags, the 
slow build-up of trust from an animal who’s 
finally safe and no longer ducks his head 
when you go to pet him, and the bittersweet 
relief of finding a loving home or release back 
to the wild. It’s important to take moments 
like these and let them remind us of why we 
do this work. 
      So to all who open their hearts and 
homes to animals in need, here’s to another 
day of cleaning messes, offering sips of water, 
and the steady – drip, drip, drip, scoop, scoop, 
scoop – rhythm of care.  
       
The Rhythm of Care
by Nathan Winograd
By the Way 
Keeping Grimm hydrated, the litter 
box clean, advocating for humane 
policies, and 
nurturing all 
the animals 
we rescued 
and found 
homes for 
can take its 
toll. In 2025, 
I was fueled 
by 1,804 
shots of 
espresso, 218 cocktails, 747 kisses from 
my wife, and one championship ring 
in my softball league. ––Nathan
U

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