The cat came back!
Isn’t that Dr. Seuss or something? Anyway, the cat did not come back—it never left. The cat/kitten is still here and in fine fettle, as they used to say in British horsey circles. This is the sole survivor of a litter that was left on my back doorstep and, in the manner of kittens in general, is cuter than all get out. She seems to be getting along with, if not actually gladly welcomed by, the guy cats in the house. There has been considerable hissing and growling but no physical damage. Heck, we had that when it was just the guys on their own.
Fuego, the oldest resident now, learned from Shaver, his dearly departed Aunty-cat (or was she the anti-cat?), how to leap from the kitchen counter to the space above the cupboards(they could both make themselves comfortable among the light bulbs in that space—not my idea of comfort but, hey, I can’t get up there either), so when things don’t go his way, he’s liable to tear through the house, get to the counter and—Whoops!—fly up to his favorite vantage point to observe us all below. The reason he’s tearing through the house is usually Bob, he of the abbreviated tail, and the stitched-together backside (which seems to be bothering him lately; I see a visit to the vet in our future), who doesn’t put up with much bossiness from anybody, even me, I fear. He often takes off into the dark when I go out to bring him in; he’ll show up in his own good time but it’s not always safe for a critter his size when there are bigger ones on the prowl at night. Anyway, Bob is apparently resigned to the fact that we’ve got a new boarder. It doesn’t hurt that she seems properly subservient when trying to make up to him—backs off when he expresses displeasure.
The youngest of the clowder(defined as a group of cats—Felis Catus, Felis domesticus, related to the word clutter, not the same as a bunch of kittens—that’s a kindle) of felines in my house, Champ, has acted about half scared; he climbed up onto the shelf in the bathroom to peer down at her, which was pretty funny, seeing as how he’s about three times her height and probably four times her weight. Sometimes he follows her around as if she were some kind of specimen that he’s observing for scientific purposes. This may, indeed, be the case but he’ll have a heckuva time trying to type up his findings; an opposable thumb would come in handy for a project like that.
Anyway, it’s not as if I NEEDED a replacement cat after the last of the Three Sisters of Dramatic Cat-dom left us for that Big Lap in the Sky, but there she is and unless I get a really good offer, or she and I cannot resolve our differences over the desirability of using the litter box (I even bought some high-class litter called “Cat Attract”, with special herbs…and magic spells, for all I know. So far, it hasn’t proved to be exactly irresistible but things are starting to look up) she’s looking more and more like a fixture. If this Port-a-potty issue is not settled to my satisfaction, she’s likely to find herself as an ersatz “barn cat” and roughing it on the porch with her semi-neglectful mamma.
I’m afraid that I may have succumbed to the “kiss of death” when it comes to NOT adopting new animals; I gave her a name and got her a collar (Well, how else can I have clue where she’s disappeared to?). The collar is pink—not my favorite color but it was the only one they had in kitten size—and the name is “Butterscotch”, because she has tiger-ish markings but rather than the usual black on gray, she seems to be more dark brown on lighter brown or butterscotch/orange, with one orange/butterscotch toe and some light patches, mostly around the face, which, like most kittens, renders her more or less adorable. She more or less comes when I call her “Scotchie”. I fear that I am doomed.
We’ll have to be off to the vet soon to get all of the vital statistics recorded and the vital shots and an appointment for “the operation” somewhere down the line; I’m sure we’ll all be looking forward to that. I’d take her feckless mamma, if she could be enticed into the carrier, but all efforts so far have been for naught and taking her loose in the car is not even to be thought of…disaster!
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Nothing else new to report. Christmas Walk is next up on the menu and I’ve just made a new batch of pastry dough so that pies can be made with my usual efficiency and dispatch…that means at the last minute and “winging it”. I’ve got a bunch of pecans and walnuts to use up and frozen fruits of several kinds, not to mention apples from Monroe’s Orchard and Farm Market. Once the oven is fired up, you might as well just get on a roll and keep turning ‘em out, I say. Makes the house smell great too. Tips from real estate people always say you should bake something either yeasty or cinnamon-y when showing a house. I couldn’t afford my own place, based on the aromas; good thing I’m not looking to sell.
