Friday evening while I was out doing crazy, irresponsible things like meeting up with blogger buddies, my cellphone rang and rang. I checked the display to see if it was anyone I wanted to talk to - you know, Sarah Palin finally calling to apologize for being such a Divisive Delores or the lottery commission calling to notify me of some big winning, but no, it was just Garbo calling to ask me to say yes to something her daddy had already said "no" to. This is how the game is played, speaking of divisive.
I chose not to answer the phone.
Eventually, MathMan called for some thing or other and I mentioned the repeated, ignored calls. "She's just calling to beg you to keep a kitten she found," came his response.
People of the internets, it seems that there is a level of cat ownership at which one must stay. Five seems to be our predestined level. We had five before: Tiger, Daisy, Morris, Ivy and Pyewacket. When we moved, Pyewacket, the neighborhood jack about town, stayed behind with the other families who fed him and called him their own. Now we were at four.
Except Friday afternoon, two kittens climbed from the ditch separating us from our neighbors and ran straight for the gang of Covered Bridge Springs Tarts who were horsing around in the yard. Much squealing ensued, I'm sure.
Garbo grabbed one kitten for her own, the neighbor twins grabbed the other. Mama Cat was nowhere to be seen. (She still hasn't reappeared.) MathMan began in earnest to say the word 'NO' over and over again. That's when my cellphone began ringing.
Later that evening, when I arrived home, I was implored to please at least lay eyes on the sweet little baby. I should have known better. I wasn't twenty seconds in to my love fest before I declared that we would have to keep her. People, pussy makes me stupid, that's all there is to it.
Later that evening, as I sweet-talked MathMan about how were now going to have to keep the kitten, I thought I heard another cat. When I couldn't spot one, I gave up looking. The next morning, though, I heard it again. Thinking it might be Mama Cat crying out for her babies, I walked down to the ditch and called "Kitty, kitty, kitty....."
A little gray kitten, nearly identical to the one we had ran from the bushes and skidded to a halt on the edge of the ditch. As I was instructing it to be careful and stay put until I could come around and get her? him?, the kitten reared back on its haunches and made the great leap over the deep ditch. It was like watching Evel Kneivel jump that motorbike over the canyon.
And then there were six.
Turns out the neighbor twins were told to put that cat back where it came from. They have a smart mama, you see. Thankfully, MathMan found a home for number six, putting us comfortably back at our five cat level. Again. Thanks be to the fellow school teacher who took that kitten. I'd hate to mess with the number gods on this one.
And so that is my story of pussy procurement. Not as much fun as cruising the redlight district in any given city, but with a lot less chance for STDs, too. You've gotta find the good in things, right?
Here's another home movie for you....
Because I have nothing better to do than make goofy movies, that's why.