The cats had heard  the rumors. Everyone had. A band of mischievous mice—tiny outlaws with big attitudes—had taken over the grain corner of the barn. Even Warren the Warrior Steer had witnessed them sprint past his hooves like a furry parade. “Tonight,” Sir Bill proclaimed, “we restore order.” Gentle Mike, ever the philosopher, added, “And politely request they relocate.” Under moonbeams filtering through the barn loft, they crept in. The grain bags rustled. A squeaky giggle echoed. Then—zip!...

As Wisconsin’s air turns crisp and daylight shortens, the Sanctuary begins its cozy transformation. The big pasture is now closed for winter, keeping the cattle close to the barn where the wind can’t reach them. Truckloads of sweet hay roll in weekly, and the sound of steady chewing fills the frosty air. Fresh straw blankets every pig hut, piled high for burrowing and warmth. Inside the barn, more cats are settling in—curled on hay bales or tucked into the heated cat houses we’ve plugged in...

One silver-moon night, Sir Bill crept from his porch kingdom to find Gentle Mike waiting by the gate, tail flicking with quiet excitement. “Tonight,” Mike purred, “we go beyond the fences.” Together they slipped into the sleeping pasture, their paws leaving twin trails in the dew. They crossed moonlit hayfields and followed fireflies to the great oak at the hilltop—where legend says the stars whisper to those who truly listen. Bill, ever proud, tried to act unimpressed, but when the wind...