Swoon! More pics were texted to me, but I was already sold. Sure, I was in a very vulnerable place, but come on, look at those eyes! Who could say no to this baby? I’m very weak in so many ways—this is just one of those ways. I went home already brainstorming names. Then I had an incredibly shitty evening. So it goes.
But Friday dawned, and by the end of it I had this mister mister in my arms, and Nauticalina by my side. These are lessons I will seemingly always fail to remember, but am always grateful for when they happen.
Who-Wee was my adoption broker (she is very crafty), and this is Brekkie (as he will be called here). Due to an unflagging sense of adventure, Brekkie was discovered in an engine block. After the vehicle had been driven. He’s a little miracle kitten. The only thing he suffered was a fractured tail (it doesn’t hurt him one bit, and you can’t see it, just feel the knot—we had an Irish Setter growing up whose tail felt exactly the same after he exuberantly thumped it too hard on the coffee table). The vet estimated his age to be between 7-10 weeks, and I’ve decided his birthday is April 1, which makes Clem older by 9 days.
Look how even the robot on my shirt wants to hold Brekkie!
The Bear is handling this new intrusion in his life with amazing aplomb. There’s a bit of fussing when Brekkie steals his food, or gets in the way of one-on-one attention from me, but other than that, he doesn’t really seem bothered by him. They even shared a plate of disgusting canned kibble. Barf.
Yesterday, was a bit of a nail biter when I took him to the clinic to get tested for the nasty kitty diseases. CSP was with me, and did his best to distract me, and as always, he did a pretty good job. Brekkie was deemed so awesome by the clinic staff, that they took his picture for Kitten of the Week. That’s my boy, already winning awards (sorry, Clem!). He was proclaimed clean, and we packed the kids off to Camp Grumples where they spent the next several hours rough-housing. They are totally in love, and I really should just start planning their wedding now (though, CSP as the bride’s mom, might want to work on his budget; it’s going to be spectacular, and therefore, quite expensive).
Here’s what their love affair looks like:
They’re obviously in that stage where they express their feelings by hitting each other. It’s very romantic. Today he’s been a bit listless—wandering around the house morosely. He misses his girlfriend.
When he feels like sleeping, he manages to squeeze himself under my dresser, then climbs up in to one of the drawers. At least there’s no moving parts that can chop him in to little kitten bits; though, I worry about accidentally decapitating him (there’s six drawers, and he hasn’t picked a favorite one yet). He has not figured out how to get back out of the dresser, thus there was a dramatic 4:30am rescue this morning. Dramatic in that I was blind and was almost drunk with exhaustion.
More adorableness:
Yes, it’s perfectly understandable to be jealous. Also, I realize that this blog is pretty much a record of me sinking in to the depths of the crazy, cat-lady realms. Whatev.
Since I just groused about at attempted to be inappropriately touched by a grocery-store check-out girl, here’s an interesting paper on the prevalence and thoughts behind heavily tattooed women being felt-up by strangers. I wish I had been able to participate in her study.
There’s was this one time in Boston, when I was leaving my favorite bar, and some large drunken man grabbed my arm as I was walking by his booth, and said something skeevy to me—it was pointedly sexual and referenced my tattoos. I felt so sick and helpless. I froze and managed to choke out, “Take your hand off of me now!” He didn’t. There were other men at his table who said nothing, did nothing. I was with other women, who said nothing, did nothing. He finally let me go, calling me a “lesbian bitch.” Something he obviously meant to be highly insulting. I wanted to cry, but didn’t dare for fear of looking weak in front of him and his friends, and sadly, I didn’t want my friends to see how much he had affected me either. That is so fucked up. How is it that I was the one left feeling so ashamed?
Read the article. It’s good. Thank you Irina for researching and writing it.
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