What Shall I Call Thee?
Hard to believe it's almost been a week since that evening I brought home the kitten: feels so much longer than that. My ride-options fell through, so I did the 40-minute-each-way walk with what little remained of my energy. So much cleaning, so little sleep. I kept trying to imagine meeting the little whiskered one at PetCo and not quite managing it.
By the time I got there, I was dragging. Distantly excited, but mostly numb. Exhausted both physically and mentally. The foster-mother brought the little guy out of his cage and I didn't even pet him, or ask to hold him. I just kept filling out the paperwork. They had me sign a contract saying I would never declaw him, which I found curious. Surely such a thing isn't legally enforceable. I don't need to declaw, now that I'm confident about claw-clipping, but I'm still amused.
The PetCo checkout clerk thought the kitten was about six months old instead of three and a half, and I agree. Runt of the litter he definitely is not. His paws and ears are still outsized, his legs a little short, but otherwise he's proportioned like an adult. A long, waving tail that still has just a touch of a kitten's taper to it. A tiny white milk-mustache on the right half of his muzzle that gives him a bemused smirk. A black splotch where a human's bellybutton would be, to go with the one on his chin. (And I'll be able to tell whether it's Socks or this kitten visiting my dreams- I just have to check the chin.) Yellow eyes, blacker than black fur. Fur that's still so soft, just beginning to change from kitten-puffball to sleek adult cats'. And wavy whiskers! I've never seen a cat with anything but straight whiskers.
My formless life ended abruptly. Every morning, I unlock the bedroom door and play some video games or quietly mess with my computer while he curls up on my shoulder, chest, or belly and sleeps soundly. I don't want him thinking that ass-crack of dawn is breakfast time. He gets his breakfast (a quarter-can of wet food) just before I fix mine. Coyote and I play with him, then he'll conk out for midmorning nap. Either on me or with his slim little body stretched along the sunny windowsill. Doubtful that'll be comfortable in another month or two.
When the sun moves off the windowsill, that's my cue to open the blinds in the Toy Room, so that a sun puddle appears on that floor for some hours of the late morning and early afternoon. We've both been napping in the early afternoon lately, but not together. Perhaps this January, we'll finally get a short sofa so that I might. I can't sleep on any of our existing furniture.
His head rears up and his eyes open wide when he hears Coyote's tread on the stairs, and greets him ecstatically. Coyote plays with him and tries hard not to trod on the curious little bugger as he makes dinner. This is a kitten who wants to be everywhere you are, watching all that you do. He was even walking around the rim of the bathtub this morning as I had my bath, undeterred by the wetting his hindlegs and tail got during his one slip.
Just before or after we get our dinner, I'll give him his, another quarter-can of wet food. He also has dry food, but thankfully he was already free-feeding in his foster house. Then some more playing, more sleeping, and I can sneak off to bed while he's drowsy or engaged with a toy.
Yet even though I've been monitoring him, there have been incidents. I need to buy more forks, particularly for the big palm tree whose huge pot is just so tempting to use in lieu of the litterbox. And sometime last night, something happened to the whiskers on the non-smirking half of his face- they're only half there. Did he chew them? Burn them on a radiator or a too-slowly-cooling electric stove? Cut them, somehow? No idea, but there's no other sign of injury.
He's like having a whippet right now, either zonked out or wildly awake, racing all around and leaping and pouncing. He loves all his toys, and many others he's discovered. The little plastic things in front of Coyote's monitor. The dangly leaves of the Ponytail Palm. An empty toilet paper tube. Even his bed! I've only seen him sleep in it once, but I think he'll be more appreciative when it gets colder. It's really cozy.
The last thing that eludes me is a name. Somewhat tempted to call him ZigZag or Skew-Wif or Lightening, because of those amazing wavy whiskers, but that's such a tiny part of him. The smirk and the tuxedo and the grand size he'll eventually be make me strongly desire to name him after a monster.
The two leading contenders, then, are The Corinthian from The Sandman and Ramsay. Ramsay for both Ramsay Bolton/Snow and Gordon Ramsay, a rather funny celebrity chef. I could also do Marcus Samuelsson, but he's far less of a monster.
Mack the Knife is a well-dressed, smiling monster. So is the Phantom of the Opera. So are any number of mob characters, though that's not of a whole lot of interest to me. I'm sure Jack the Ripper was a gentleman monster, but Jack-for-short is too plain. H.H. Holmes was a gentleman. I'm sure there are other serial killers. Louis was a gentleman- but he doesn't have my favorite Anne Rice vampire's temperment, not at all. He's much more of a Lestat, but I don't want that snarky ass in my house. Jesse, as in Breaking Bad? No, not really a monster, and dressed far more flamboyantly than a simple tux.
I was hoping to come to the end of this very entry with a firm name in my head, but I'm still spinning through possibilities. It feels like a weighty responsibility, and I don't want to give him the wrong one. My friend took months to name her cats, so I don't feel lame that it's not a quick process for me. I may end up making a vet appointment for him as Mr. Wiggly-Whiskers, and change it to his proper name later.
By the time I got there, I was dragging. Distantly excited, but mostly numb. Exhausted both physically and mentally. The foster-mother brought the little guy out of his cage and I didn't even pet him, or ask to hold him. I just kept filling out the paperwork. They had me sign a contract saying I would never declaw him, which I found curious. Surely such a thing isn't legally enforceable. I don't need to declaw, now that I'm confident about claw-clipping, but I'm still amused.
The PetCo checkout clerk thought the kitten was about six months old instead of three and a half, and I agree. Runt of the litter he definitely is not. His paws and ears are still outsized, his legs a little short, but otherwise he's proportioned like an adult. A long, waving tail that still has just a touch of a kitten's taper to it. A tiny white milk-mustache on the right half of his muzzle that gives him a bemused smirk. A black splotch where a human's bellybutton would be, to go with the one on his chin. (And I'll be able to tell whether it's Socks or this kitten visiting my dreams- I just have to check the chin.) Yellow eyes, blacker than black fur. Fur that's still so soft, just beginning to change from kitten-puffball to sleek adult cats'. And wavy whiskers! I've never seen a cat with anything but straight whiskers.
My formless life ended abruptly. Every morning, I unlock the bedroom door and play some video games or quietly mess with my computer while he curls up on my shoulder, chest, or belly and sleeps soundly. I don't want him thinking that ass-crack of dawn is breakfast time. He gets his breakfast (a quarter-can of wet food) just before I fix mine. Coyote and I play with him, then he'll conk out for midmorning nap. Either on me or with his slim little body stretched along the sunny windowsill. Doubtful that'll be comfortable in another month or two.
When the sun moves off the windowsill, that's my cue to open the blinds in the Toy Room, so that a sun puddle appears on that floor for some hours of the late morning and early afternoon. We've both been napping in the early afternoon lately, but not together. Perhaps this January, we'll finally get a short sofa so that I might. I can't sleep on any of our existing furniture.
His head rears up and his eyes open wide when he hears Coyote's tread on the stairs, and greets him ecstatically. Coyote plays with him and tries hard not to trod on the curious little bugger as he makes dinner. This is a kitten who wants to be everywhere you are, watching all that you do. He was even walking around the rim of the bathtub this morning as I had my bath, undeterred by the wetting his hindlegs and tail got during his one slip.
Just before or after we get our dinner, I'll give him his, another quarter-can of wet food. He also has dry food, but thankfully he was already free-feeding in his foster house. Then some more playing, more sleeping, and I can sneak off to bed while he's drowsy or engaged with a toy.
Yet even though I've been monitoring him, there have been incidents. I need to buy more forks, particularly for the big palm tree whose huge pot is just so tempting to use in lieu of the litterbox. And sometime last night, something happened to the whiskers on the non-smirking half of his face- they're only half there. Did he chew them? Burn them on a radiator or a too-slowly-cooling electric stove? Cut them, somehow? No idea, but there's no other sign of injury.
He's like having a whippet right now, either zonked out or wildly awake, racing all around and leaping and pouncing. He loves all his toys, and many others he's discovered. The little plastic things in front of Coyote's monitor. The dangly leaves of the Ponytail Palm. An empty toilet paper tube. Even his bed! I've only seen him sleep in it once, but I think he'll be more appreciative when it gets colder. It's really cozy.
The last thing that eludes me is a name. Somewhat tempted to call him ZigZag or Skew-Wif or Lightening, because of those amazing wavy whiskers, but that's such a tiny part of him. The smirk and the tuxedo and the grand size he'll eventually be make me strongly desire to name him after a monster.
The two leading contenders, then, are The Corinthian from The Sandman and Ramsay. Ramsay for both Ramsay Bolton/Snow and Gordon Ramsay, a rather funny celebrity chef. I could also do Marcus Samuelsson, but he's far less of a monster.
Mack the Knife is a well-dressed, smiling monster. So is the Phantom of the Opera. So are any number of mob characters, though that's not of a whole lot of interest to me. I'm sure Jack the Ripper was a gentleman monster, but Jack-for-short is too plain. H.H. Holmes was a gentleman. I'm sure there are other serial killers. Louis was a gentleman- but he doesn't have my favorite Anne Rice vampire's temperment, not at all. He's much more of a Lestat, but I don't want that snarky ass in my house. Jesse, as in Breaking Bad? No, not really a monster, and dressed far more flamboyantly than a simple tux.
I was hoping to come to the end of this very entry with a firm name in my head, but I'm still spinning through possibilities. It feels like a weighty responsibility, and I don't want to give him the wrong one. My friend took months to name her cats, so I don't feel lame that it's not a quick process for me. I may end up making a vet appointment for him as Mr. Wiggly-Whiskers, and change it to his proper name later.