Whoever thought of naming my ferals Hissy and Fitz is a genius. That is what I’m going with. To tell you the truth, fostering ferals is sort of a thankless task. I mean, till they like me, if they ever do.
I spent the whole day in the kitten room yesterday, with my laptop, being my usual misunderstood self, trying to do eight hours’ of work in the allotted four I was given, then feeling panicked I wouldn’t be able to carefully proofread every word of a huge document
AND DON’T SCREW UP.
They’re just horrified, and no matter how many hours I sit quietly near then, they jump back and hiss at me. It’s awful.
This morning I got up
let the dog out
fed Milhous and Lily
gave everyone new water
fed Iris her sick-cat food
let Edsel in
gave him one pill
cut another pill and gave it to him
cut a third pill and gave it to him
then went to the kitten room, where I gingerly took out their little towels and rugs, shook them out outside, put new clean towels in
changed their litter
changed their water
and then when I went to zip up their little tent, they reared back and hissed at me.
And that is when I said, “You know what? Go to hell, you thankless kittens. Geez.”
Still, I plan to sit in there all day today so they get used to me. It’s nice to leave the room and be with animals who actually like me.
I hope I don’t screw them up for life and they’ll never be adoptable.
This is hard.