Awhile back, I went to the animal shelter for fun, because I’m the only person in America who goes to the animal shelter for fun. Others play softball. At least that’s what I imagine the normal folk do.
They had a banner up: Fosters for Puppies and Kittens Needed.
It was like the best sentence of my life, along with Free Lipstick, No Purchase Necessary. Which isn’t really a sentence. Neither was “fosters for puppies and kittens needed.”
The best sort-of sentence of my life, along with “I’m Morris Chestnut and I need a woman to climb up on me.” Which actually was a sentence.
Also, hi, mom.
The point is, I volunteered. Not for puppies ALTHOUGH I WOULD. But it seemed like bringing back a puppy carcass, just sort of leaning it on their doorframe, isn’t what they had in mind at the animal shelter.
Last month, I fostered an orange and white kitten named Jodie Foster.
She was MEANT to stay in the back bedroom, but that did not happen.
Fortunately, she was a big hit with everyone here. And when she was ready to be adopted, she found a home that same day.
The point of fostering is you take home kittens who aren’t ready yet–they’re too young, they have an upper respiratory thing, that sort of snafu.
My current crop, that I got yesterday, is too young. They’re jailbait. That is a disgusting term.
Anyway, I have a mom cat, Nancy,
and her four babies. The shelter already named them, so all my brilliant Nancy-related names were for naught.
The black one is a girl, named Trixie. Because apparently she’s a waitress at a truck stop in the ’50s. Despite this dramatic photo, she is the most laid back one.
Lexi is gray with some butterscotch, and if anyone is going to wander off on her own, it’s she. She doesn’t need anyone. Well. For like 15 seconds at a time. Then she does.
Below is Vicki, a tortoiseshell.
I got the kittens at lunch–screamed down to the shelter, got them all in a carrier, screamed home and set them up in their room, then screamed back to work, where while I was gone I had gotten two will-take-hours jobs that both needed to be done before 4:00. Relaxing. The point is, when I got home–and oh my god I could not wait to get home–Vicki, the little tortoiseshell, was having titty dinner with her mom. On this chair that is fur-free. Good lord.
That’s what my gramma called it. Titty dinner.
When I was a kid, I was friends with a girl named Vicki, and this is all so odd. Because when I was up there describing how I could not wait to get home, this memory flashed, of playing in the backyard at Vicki’s. Her dad owned a business in the back of their house–I think they still do. They had this little building in the way-back part of their yard.
They hired an assistant, this young girl who happened to live next door in a big pretty house they’d turned into apartments. I know she lived there with her boyfriend, and I don’t recall how I knew that. Did he work at that place in the backyard, too? And did they get the jobs first and happen to find a place next door, or did they live next door and happen upon these jobs? These Qs burn in my brain.
The point is, Vicki and I were playing in her yard when that woman got out of work, and she TORE across the backyard to her boyfriend. She didn’t even notice us; she was all aglow, looking over at their house, and you could tell she just couldn’t WAIT to get home. She ran right past us and The Sunshine Family.
That was what I thought of yesterday at work when I was toiling, knowing there were kittens at home. How I just wanted to stare at my house as I ran home. And then I looked up this kitten’s name on the papers I have, and it’s Vicki.
Clearly I am psychic. Or something.
Anyway, this is Matt. He’s the only boy in this scenario. He seems pretty fearless, and after you’ve lived with all girls, you’d be fearless too. Actually, is that second picture Lexi? Oh my god, who knows. KITTENS.
Anyway, pretty much all I want to do is look at kittens.
Today, when I went in there to feed the mom cat, all four kittens came tearing out the door at once. I was literally herding cats.
Steely Dan, who had some suspicions already, happened to be looming largely in the hall when it happened.
He was not amused.
Oh, he’ll come around. I’m not worried. But right now, he’s huffed outside with his ears back.
Meanwhile, all boopy kittens are safely back in their room, with a pillow in that space under the door, the way I jerry-rigged it when Jodie Foster was here, so they don’t escape.
I will talk at you soon, but meanwhile, won’t you enjoy some vicious cat fights?
Insane cat lady-ly,