Kit(ten) Me, Baby, One More Time: December 17, 2008
In which the Orkney Islands are mentioned, but not in connection with kittens.
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I am not sure exactly how this happened, but for some reason I am on a discussion list about the Orkney Islands. I’ve been getting the e-mails for quite some time, so I must have signed up at some point; but why? What could I possibly have wanted to know about Orkney? Did I wake up one morning and think to myself, as I have been known to do: “Gee whiz! Here is a subject I know nothing about! This must be remedied AT ONCE!” and then did I throw on my robe, run to the computer and join an Orkney-centric discussion list? And even if I did do that, why am I still on it? I think I’ve learned enough about Maeshowe and the Orkneyinga saga to sate my curiosity for a while.
Standing stones and passage graves aside, I am having a rather decent time right now. Last week sucked for various reasons, the main two of which are furry and cute and hideously expensive. I took them to the vet to get checked for feline leukemia; they don’t have it (yay!), but they do still have their worms. Which means I spent seven days squirting nasty-smelling liquid down their gullets for nothing. Now they have pills, which are harder to give, because they are becoming very good at hiding said pills in their mouths and spitting them out when my back is turned. Fortunately, I can hear the cling! as the pill hits the brass spittoon in the corner, and then the thwak-thwak-thwak of the swinging saloon doors as they bolt for the dusty street, fumbling in their holsters for their Colts. (Maybe I should not have gone for a High Noon theme in my bathroom.)
On the bright side, we have settled on names for the two little terrors. The big one is Brownie — my in-laws’ choice, not mine; I would have named him “Barnacle Bill the Sailor Cat” because of the way he clings to my calves, or “Jupiter” because he is a gaseous giant. I am afraid to hold him on my lap these days, because within five minutes the air turns green and my nose falls off. His sister, however, does not have the same problem at all; she is delicate and sweet and timid and loving and looks at me like she thinks I hung the moon. She also bears a striking resemblance to this little girl, particularly with the wary sidelong glance. So we have named her Cosette the Poor Little Orphan Kitty. Which makes me Jean Valjean, I guess.
Piper Maru the Penguin Cat is not taking this very well. Her reaction follows the same path as a rising celebrity’s tolerance of paparazzi: first patience, then annoyance, and finally lashing out. The kittens back up the analogy with their behavior: in-her-face, trying to get a good look at her, increasingly unafraid of her attacks. (On the plus side, they have not threatened to file any lawsuits or press assault charges.) And this is all happening through a metal firescreen. When the kittens actually come out and start chasing her around, I expect a full nervous breakdown, complete with head-shaving and bad British accent.
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