The Reluctant Cat Fancier
Despite the occasional histrionic, felinophilic outburst, I've never been much of a cat person. Lola and I maintain a shaky truce, but I wouldn't go so far as to say that she's warmly affectionate toward me. Not even affectionate, really. Hell, between you and me, I think she's pretty self-centered. But then, I suppose that's the way of the cat....
Anyway, given all that, and given everthing else I've got going on in my life--a boyfriend jet-setting around the country, a 150+ year old house to fix up, some extracurricular theatrical endeavors, and the rebuilding of an entire city (though I'm getting some help with that one)--the last thing I need in my life is another freakin' cat, n'est-ce pas?
Enter cat, stage left.
So, it's Saturday afternoon, and I'm cleaning up the house, right? (Truth be told, I have to clean up the house every afternoon now that we're in shedding season.) I'm cleaning up, and I step out the side door onto the porch, and there's Tania with something in her mouth--something gray and limp and fuzzy. What the hell is it? A rat? A bat? Great. I've always wondered what having rabies would feel like.... I shout, "Drop it!" and sure enough, Tania does so--rather delicately, in fact.
I step off the porch and take a closer look at the lump. It's moving. Kinda. No wings--that's a good sign. And the tail's too short for a rat... Then I make out the face: it's a cat. Well, a kitten to be precise. Maybe three or four weeks old. Not much bigger than my hand. See:
So I put it in a box with a couple of towels, then I run off to the pet store, where I drop more change than expected on some smaller-than-pint-sized baby bottles and a can of powdered cat formula. Who knew they made cat formula?
Of course, Jonno--being the secret softie that he is--now wants to keep the cat. And Tania's very protective of her, trying to nuzzle up to her every time I feed her. I don't think I have a choice in the matter. Am I destined to become a crazy cat lady?
