Midnight Mutterings | A bucket of kittens

||| MIDNIGHT MUTTEREINGS BY JACKIE BATES |||

Finally, after so many tries, possibilities, disappointments, tragedy. (If you’ve ever heard of Fading Kitten Syndrome, you know of one sad possibility.) Then there is bad timing, my pickiness, circumstance, seasons passing without harvest. Now, though, we have kittens! Two beauties, grey tabby sisters, but not twins. Perfect kittens for us. I name mine Rose. Molly waited a whole day for her name, but seems satisfied with what my son has chosen, after several trials of other, lesser names.

I say ‘we’, as my son and I have gone into this together, hoping to raise them together and apart, depending on mood and circumstance. (One such circumstance is that they may well outlive me, and this means that they have a readymade, familiar, home waiting.)

We got them this week, from Craig’s List. I haven’t spent much time on Craig’s List or bought much, besides a house, once, almost fifteen years ago. I don’t imagine the cats will appreciate in value, but the taxes are lower.

Day 1: We go to see the kittens in early afternoon and drive away with them about an hour later. (A lot like the house, actually, except it stayed in place on its foundation, and we signed papers a few days later.) We were a little nervous as the listing showed beautiful kittens, but not how many. Turned out that there were FIFTEEN, or had been, and about twelve were available. You can see maybe ten in the bucket, the two black ones hidden in shadow and the two we selected already in our arms. Whew! What a task, choosing. We are reminded of Snoopy’s story, the puppy mill in Petaluma, according to Charles Shultz, but the kittens seem healthy and friendly, well cared for by an nine year old girl who knew all their family histories, personalities and preferences. ‘Two moms,’ she said, ‘sisters.’ There had been two litters born two days apart. Seven in one. TEN in the other. Two early tragedies, with fifteen thriving. And, yes, I care about the ethics of the cat over-population problem, which will be the subject of my next column. And, yes, these girls will be spayed before they reproduce, but later, at five months, likely. We wanted young kits, and shelters are understandably unimpressed by promises, however sincere. These will be my last cats and I selfishly wanted the joy of young kittens one last time. The kits sleep in their soft carrier on the way home, even while we stop to buy food and litter. Once home to the house from Craig’s List we set up Craig’s List kittens in the bathroom with basket, water, food and litter box. They drink a little water, submit to our pats and admiration, and conk out for the night.

Day 2: Transformation. Only eight weeks old, they seem to have doubled overnight in size and ambition. The food is gone and the litter has served its purpose. They set about exploring the house, thoroughly inspecting every nook and cranny. They emerge from under the couch with dust on their noses, exposing inadequate housekeeping. The bathroom is a wreck. All towels have been pulled to the floor, bathmat is scrunched in the corner, shower curtain clawed, and that’s not all. All toys belonging to Sybil-the-Cat who departed the world in early 2019, that haven’t been given away, are on Orcas. The kittens have made do with a six pack of toilet paper, removing the plastic wrapping, shredding roll by roll so they look fuzzy with bad haircuts. The hanging roll is now a fluffy pile on the floor, the inner cardboard cold and lonely on the spindle. As soon as the prison gate is opened, babies emerge, pushing a roll twice their size for later. Then they are everywhere, a blur of grey and black stripes, thundering around the little house like tiny horses. Eventually exhausted, they crash on the couch, against me. Rose purrs, as she did yesterday. Molly does not, but yawns prettily and closes her eyes.Friends come to visit, admiring the babies, offering advice. ‘You need a cat tree, one of those floor toys with balls that can’t roll away.’

The kittens are already expressing their personalities. Rose is in charge of food, though she shares generously as long as she gets her turn first. She seems larger than Molly, though it is hard to tell without a postage scale. Molly has acute COCD, washing everything thoroughly: herself and Rose, especially faces and ears, my hand, covering every finger with her raspy tongue. I didn’t know Cat Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder existed until I met young Molly. After a long day of banqueting, athletics and frequent naps, tongue baths and cuddles, it’s back to the bathroom for the night. Everything interesting is out of reach this time. Or so we thought.

Day 3: The kittens now have wings, though invisible. They are airborne, jumping many times their heights. The soap and shampoo from the edge of the tub are on the floor. No chair seat is out of reach and they are eyeing the kitchen counter from the pile of laundry nearby. The couch and soft chairs won’t last long under attack of tiny Velcro claws. The barrier we put between the kitchen and dining room is history. I think they laugh at our ignorance. They can open heavy doors with the crook of a tiny, soft foot. The papers near the printer are theirs for sliding and scattering. All tech cords have been provided for chewing. Rose still purrs and Molly squeaks a bit, but they aren’t noisy except for their galloping feet. They climb our legs. We are protected by long underwear, until both kits climb the backs of both of my legs at the same time, pulling down my pants. They don’t look like they weigh that much.

I feed them bits of minced chicken breast and they hiss and growl at each other, spreading their tiny paws in threat. Somehow kitten food isn’t as provocative, though they eat it willingly. They follow us around the house hopefully, and we can’t help picking them up. Sometimes they curl in our hands and rest against our hearts. Other times they squirm impatiently. Tonight, just before dark, they came when I called. They moved hesitantly and wobbly, but they came. I wish I had rubies to give them, or caviar. But they came, just for my voice. Our kittens. Our baby cats.