instead of being proactive, you end up being reactive...
Frankly, I'd rather be proactive, but have discovered that real life, well lived, means that sometimes (often) you simply are not in control.
The day before the wedding here, the unexpected happened.
Nick killed one of the barn cats.
While festivities were in full swing, he placed the dead cat on the porch.
No...No... this does not work...this does not work at all! The living room and dining room were full of young women making bouquets, and laughing and getting prepared for the wedding and there, on the porch, was a dead cat.
I rather frantically called "Dad in charge of dead cats" and he did come and faithfully discharge his duties.
An hour later, the dead cat was, again, right there on the front porch !!!
This time, "Dad in charge of dead cats who return" was both appalled and instructed to be DONE with the cat.
Now about that time, I went to the bathroom. Our sole bathroom was an afterthought. It is located off the kitchen at the back of the house. It was once a pantry. In the 1940's, when indoor plumbing became the thing to do here, the pantry was converted to a modern bathroom. You had to go outdoors on the porch to access the bathroom. Somehow, I'm not really sure that qualifies as indoor plumbing. I will hasten to explain that the 'back porch' was later enclosed and when we began renovations was fully incorporated into the house. (So, we no longer go outside to use the 'inside' toilet!)
Anyway, back to the wedding festivities and the now very nervous parents of the bride, who do NOT want dead cat reappearances to mar the lovely events.
(I'm sure you can understand how we were feeling at this point!)
As I am partaking of all the various refreshments of body and spirit that one can in the bathroom, I hear this quite faint and very week 'meow'... NO... no... it simply cannot be. Surely not today?!
But of course... you see, timing at our house is always rather certain to be unpredictable and capricious... so naturally, indeed, I DID hear a small, pitiful meow. (and I had happened to check to determine that the dead cat was female)... So, very discretely, I slip out the back door, leaving the merriment in full tilt, and pry open the door to under the house. Bless my heart, if there weren't kittens... not very far under the house,,, a pretty little nest of cold and hungry, dirty kittens.
So, you already know that most of the wedding party ladies were either medical professionals or science people... and what happened next was... well,,, about what you'd expect here... I whip up some cat formula (yes, indeed, there is such a thing!) and find the baby cat bottles and what ensued was a round of bottlefeeding pitiful kittens combined with merry bouquet making.... really, one would not expect there not to be complications of some sort here... right? The bride, who was raised here, and obviously loves us, or she wouldn't keep coming back, was not at all surprised, nor was she put off by the tiny little week old kitties who joined the party. It really helps to have a bride who can roll with things,,, small, fluffy, needy things...
Cutting to the chase, two of the kitties did not survive. One of the kitties did survive and has quite taken over.
Mr. "dad in charge of declaring 'we do not need a house cat'" is smitten.... absolutely gone round the bend, I tell you. He calls home from work to check on "HIS" kitten!
For a small kitten, he had quite the appetite.
And big eyes... big 'I love you, I need you" eyes... (surrounded, no less, by a 'mask' of black on an otherwise white kitten... well, his tail is black too!,,, so sort of a before and after bit of black)
We now have the pitter-patter of tiny feet, behind us every step of the way. The tiny feet, and their fine sharp claws have learned to climb furniture and pants legs and curtains... sigh... The tiny teeth will occasionally nip into us as he learns how to treat his cat family which is made of human beings.
What I'm saying is we have been overtaken by a small furball!
When we sit down, he settles in our lap, or on our shoulders and sets up a purr so loud that it can be heard across the room. He has claimed us.... we are his!
We are unsettled on a name.
My first inclinations were Pablo and Pedro...
so I've been calling him Pablo Pedro, of course,
in that time honored tradition of all mothers using two names when someone is naughty.
Mr. "I love this kitten" has unceremoniously named him Roomba, after the small, round automatic vacuums which run around the house cleaning up the floor.
You can, of course, see in this photo the round state of the little one. This naturally has nothing at all to do with the fact that Mr. "we do not need a cat" gets up very,very early on the weekends to make scrambled eggs for himself and the cat, as he says "He's just sooooo hungry... I don't think he's getting enough to eat."
The boys are calling him Damned Cat. (I am so ashamed!) They enjoy a game called "pick up the kitten by the tail, with your big monkey toes." sigh....
So, in the absence of Nick, we have been overtaken... by a small, rambunctious high spirited rascal, who is still searching for his name!
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