When our cats passed on last winter, I swore I’d try to wait at least ten months before considering kittens. They’d been very old and very sick, and it wasn’t a comfortable passing. I just couldn’t face it.
But round about St Marculf’s Day I began dreaming about adopting cats. One night I’d dream I was adopting my old cats, only they were young again. The next night, I dreamed about a kitten I’d never seen before. Next night it was an old moggy out of the animal shelter. By mid-July, I was howling, “All right, all right! We’ll get more cats!”
A week or so later, a friend posted on Facebook that she had just taken in a pregnant cat. She solicited parents for the kittens to come. I put dibs on two.
Here they are, twelve weeks old. Currently named TT (short for Nefertiti) and Flo (short for Flaubert, who was mis-gendered when he was a baby), they are all spooked up with vinegar. They ramp from one end of my office ot the other. They pull all the toilet paper off the roll and mess it about on the bathroom floor. They try to climb the bookcases and bring piles of paperbacks down on their little heads. When they get sufficiently impatient with me for typing on this computer instead of paying attention to them, they sneak up on my leg and sink their claws into my calf.
It’s like having twin newborns who can run faster than I can, and have claws. I’m exhausted. I think I’m getting old or something. I can’t get a lick of work done.
The up side of having kittens in the house is that one has an abundance of cat photos. This means I don’t have to wonder what to blog about for the next three to ten months.
You’ve been warned.