I’m blogging because I’m stressed. You are all unwilling Freuds listening to my machinations and I thank you.
This has nothing to do with much of any of the usual babble. I still hate Mondays and I’m still seeking spiritual revival on a daily basis. But I am still a creature of habit and when my habits are tossed into an upheaval then I tend to react adversely, the victim: yours truly.
This time the little up-setter is a ball of fur found wandering in the parking lot of the Ross store near my work. An orange kitten with pink toes and a ringed tail. He also managed to crap all over his haunches after a long day in a cardboard carrier.
Okay. I told myself that if a kitten fell in my lap needing a home and if it was a marmalade then I would seriously consider it. Amidst my rotten Monday (yes, this Monday stunk worse than the shit smearing the kitten’s tail) I became the prospective foster parent of a homeless feline.
I’m lucky though. My significant other is a big time cat lover so convincing him wasn’t hard at all. In fact he talked his mother into letting the little orange ball crash in her bathroom while we ‘quarantine’ him.
What’s really stressing me out aside from the vet bill I’m looking at tomorrow (hey, haven’t we seen this movie?), is the environment I will be creating if the orange puff is allowed to come into our tenuous home. My grumpy 13 year old jellicle and 20 lb. tabby heifer hold a truce shakier than North and South Korea. They already caught whispers of the new kitty’s scent on our clothes; their ears flat and their eyes narrowed…
My sleep will be compromised. I will be a proverbial cat sitter making sure no harm comes to the baby. Our bathroom will not be ours for several weeks while the household forms its pecking order and acclimates to the new occupant, if he does indeed move in with us.
How much more compromised will it be if I let this orange puff back out in the cruel cold world? Or the 1000 cats that can be born of this one boy if he is allowed to reproduce, which I imagine he will want to? I know I can’t save them all but damn; can I try to save at least one, one who kissed my fingers when I picked him up and began purring sweetly as if to offer ‘thanks’?
3 cats are my limit, just like 500 words are my limit. But one day I’ll probably be that crazy cat woman everyone shies from cuz she stinks of urine and canned food.
For now though, just 3… I swear.
I just want to get a clean bill of health from the tomorrow. That’s not asking much, I don’t think.
Besides, we’re already thinking up names: Mackey, Tang, Clockwork, George, Nucky, Marvin…
I’m still taking suggestions….
