As many of you might remember, I had made an agreement with Michael and Kamryn that if they could go two weeks without fighting and misbehaving, we’d get them a kitten.
[See: Kitty Cat Countdown]
And, as you can see from the picture below, there are now three furry little balls of curiosity chilling on our ottoman.
Could it be? Is this the result of two, four, six weeks of sibling love and merriment?
No. It’s the result of a spineless wife who can’t resist bringing home a basket of fluffy felines.
It was a surprise attack. Kitty warfare. There was no discussion. No negotiation. No forewarning. And no offers of truce.
Instead, she just dropped the bomb.
“I couldn’t take just ONE,” she said in a voice dripping with summoned innocence, “their mother would have moved them.”
See, these cats were born at my father-in-law’s farm thanks to a fertile feral mommy cat and a horny feral daddy cat. As much as her father tries to corral his growing cat population with mass testical executions and fallopian snips, they’ve become increasingly difficult to catch.
It used to be easy. A few twiddling fingers, a high-pitched voice, and maybe a dish of kibble was all it took to coax them into capture. But after years of seeing their feline brethren return without their kitty berries and exhibiting an odd limp, they’ve grown to distrust Farmer Dave. Even if you’re fortunate enough to make eye contact with one of the elusive farm cats, they’ll immediately dart into the shadows or climb to the tippy-top branches of the nearest tree.
When Heather discovered these particular kittens, she took it upon herself to make sure they wouldn’t eventually add to the population. She monitored their growth and made sure they were tended to by their mother. Then, once they reached the proper age, she snatched them before they could be influenced or educated by the feral populous surrounding them. Listening to her explain it, you’d think she rescued them from some twisted and impressionable cat cult.
This type of warfare should be condemned and thwarted by the U.N. because Heather uses it to arbitrarily fill our home with a procession of adopted pets. My sister asked if the movie “I Bought a Zoo” was inspired by my life, but this would have implied some sort of forethought or intent. No, the movie inspired by my life would be entitled, “My Wife Adopted a Zoo; I Just Live In It.”
Her surprise attacks rain down with a furry arsenal and there’s really no defense because she *knows* I’ll never be so callous to demand their return. In fact, this is how we acquired Dory, Mahlika, Reeses, our cat Larry, and a goat.
Ah, yes, the goat days. I arrived home one day and noticed a goat in the shower that hadn’t been there before. Heather, in her classic “matter of fact” way, simply explained that it was born premature and pointed out that it was cold outside.
“I can put it back out there if you want…but I thought it might be nice to nurse it back to health.”
There is absolutely no retort to such a statement unless you’re wearing a black hood and carrying a black heart.
Like I said…this type of warfare needs to be banned.
I’ll admit that each of her adoptions, aside from the shower goat, turned out wonderfully and each animal became a welcomed member of our family. Another plus is that we’ve had a longstanding agreement that *I* get to be the one to name the new addition.
Dory, because her aloofness, senility, and lack of memory reminded me of the fish from Finding Nimo.
Mahlika, because it means “Beautiful Face” in Turkish and this was her homeland.
Reeses, because the cat looked like a melted Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Sundae.
Larry, because it’s such a non-cat name.
And now, it is my pleasure to introduce…
My wife isn’t a big fan of the name but she’ll warm up to it. She also thought “Larry” was an absolutely stupid name for a cat (thus its appeal) but has come to admit that the name is pure genius. It won’t take long for her to come around and fall in love with Eusless as well.
I told her if it bothers her that she can just call it “Eu” (You) for short. The end result would be something out of an Abbott & Costello routine.
“Eu puked on the rug.”
“No I didn’t!”
“Not you…Eu. Eu puked on the rug.”
“I did not!”
“I know *I* did not…I’m saying EU did!”
“Mommmmm! Michael said I puked on the rug!”
“No, honey, it was Eu.”
“No it wasn’t!”
…and on and on it would go until Heather came around to remove the regurgitated log of Meow Mix.
I also can’t wait to introduce her to our veterinarian.
“My cat is Eusless,” I’ll say.
“Find me one who isn’t,” she’ll reply.
As for the other two, they’re just here as temporary playmates. One is already spoken for and I have little doubt we’ll find a home for the other one. Granted, it may end up being ours, but I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen.
Perhaps I’ll have a kitty cat giveaway where I’ll randomly choose someone out of my Facebook Friends list and let them know that they’re the lucky winners. I’ll even ship Priority Mail to cut down on the transit time.
For now, our kids are in heaven. The kittens follow them around like little ducklings and Kamryn is loving how playful and inquisitive they are. Together, her and Michael built “New York City” out of blocks to see if they could escape. They did so with little effort, which doesn’t bode well.
I look at the whole thing as a teaching opportunity. For not only will they learn how to comfort and care for kittens, but they’ll also learn that mom is a pushover where fuzz is concerned. You could have a rap sheet loaded with felonies, but if you wait her out long enough, you’ll get that kitten.
Right now, the kittens are asleep in the corner of their box. It’s hard to tell where one ends and another begins. They’re just one big kitty clump.
To the untrained eye, these kittens look a lot alike. So when Michael’s friend asked, “How can you tell which one is Eusless?,” it was an easy reply.
“Take your pick, kid. Take your pick.”