Last year, my cat M died. M and I had spent 9 years together and his death left a big crater in my life, as well as our other cat Reesie. Reesie is the feline equivalent of a teenage socialite. She’s cute, but she’s very demanding. She may very well be the loudest, whiniest cat on the face of the planet.
In the wake of M’s death, we tried to adopt another kitten, but found the process to be surprisingly difficult, as if we were trying to bring home an orphaned Chinese child or something. At the county shelters, there was a lot of red tape and regulations and many of the private run rescues were hesitant to let us adopt a cat because the Bean was a toddler—despite the fact that we already owned a cat and she was surviving living with a baby just fine. We eventually got a little gray ball of fluff from a crabby woman with a voice that sounded as if her morning routine consisted of gargling with gravel after finishing two packs of smokes and a whiskey. Unfortunately, this kitten decided that our entire house was its personal litter box and after a few months of me having to fastidiously check every corner of every room for little kitten surprises five times a day, WW™ got pregnant and we were forced to give it back. Pregnant women and cat feces aren’t a great combination.
A year had passed since and because of Sprout’s arrival, I’d pretty much started to accept that we had cemented our status as a one-cat family. That is until our neighbors discovered a mom cat and a litter of kittens living in their crawlspace. Now if you suddenly have a picture in your head of me chasing WW™ around pleading, “Can we have a kitten? Can we? I promise I’ll take care of it!” then you’d be wrong. In her infinite wisdom WW™ realized that because of our past kitten experience we are probably on some kitten adoption black list and that this litter just may be our only chance at another cat. So despite our lack of sleep, cluttered house and frazzled nerves, she asked me if we should take one home, knowing full well what my answer would be.
I happily spent the greater part of my Saturday trapping one of the kittens and taking her to the vet. The little thing is infested with fleas and hasn’t yet had all of her shots, so she’s currently living in a crate in our bathroom. In between changing poopie diapers, trying to coax a smile out of Sprout and chasing the Bean around, I’ve been changing the kitten’s urine soaked bedding, providing clean water and scooping a surprising amount of poop for an animal that weighs less than 2 pounds. Jules and I can no longer speak to each other in our bedroom at night because if the kitten hears us, she starts to meow. As I type this, I’m listening to the constant rhythmic “mew mew” coming from behind the bathroom door.
But it’s all worth it because WW™ and I are totally falling for this little creature. And as soon as the kitten's out of quarantine, I’m sure Reesie will too.
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