I wonder how many people have two five year old boys, and yet the beings that cause them to pull their hair out more than anyone, have four legs instead of two.
Such as when we're trying to watch Life on sunday nights, and have to keep pausing in the middle of its astoundingly beautiful scenes to chase down rabid felines with a squirt gun. During the day, the usually find a sunbeam on the floor, their favorite spot on top of the couch looking outside, or a warm lap, and frolic away the hours napping soundly - peaceful and beautiful creatures with noses snuggled into their tails and zen-filled smiles on their faces.
But let the sun go down, and a different scene emerges. As we sit quietly enjoying the evening, it begins with a silence-breaking meow. Not the normal kind, but Merlin's special meow/purr mix that sounds almost like the noises a mother cat will use to call her kittens. But this is NOT one of those noises - it is a battle cry. Sometimes Doof will ignore it at first. Having 3 years and 15 pounds on Merlin, he seems more likely to finish things rather than start them. Unfortunately, he usually does neither.
The tiny demon that inhabits Merlin grows restless. In his little creatively evil mind, perhaps he is planning a trip up into the ceiling tiles again. At least the few that still remain intact in the hallway. Or maybe he is leaning toward antagonizing the fish, or scavenging leftover plates on the counter for a quick sneaky meal (many a chicken nugget has been pilfered this way), or slowly climbing the furniture, like a rock climber creeping upward. But usually he opts for a more social approach and, receiving no response to his invitation, he will go one of two ways.
If he's already wound up, he'll just pounce from the nearest piece of furniture and land on Doof's head, prompting a quick chase scene around the room at breakneck speeds. The other option ends the same, but he will just smack Doof on the rear end until he wakes up, grumpy and looking for a fight. Either way, he gets what he intended. And soon both are stalking, pouncing, destroying their way to an exciting evening. For them anyways. We just try to watch our shows or have conversations, ignoring the crashing noises and crazy flipping creatures flying in blurry visions across the room.
So the fact that we're considering bringing another one in is beyond my own comprehension. (No matter how much my Dad won't believe that statement!) NO MORE! - I've been saying, even as the black kitten continued to endear us outside. Even as she followed me around each morning to water the plants, trotting between my feet and poking her little purring head from under my sundress. Even as she sat quietly on the outside of the french doors watching us, never darting in or being a pest. And even as she sat on my lap the other day and let the boys pat and rub her all over, mixing their squeals of delight with her well-tuned motor. I've turned a deaf ear to the boy's pleas, and looked away when Mike would give me that doe-eyed look as she danced around on his lap and rubbed her wet nose across his shirt, kneading away happily. I figured I would have to be the bad guy in this one. Three is too many for inside the house! Especially when I'm the one feeding them and changing their horrid litter box (or, if it's not clean enough for Merlin, find the source of the stinky ammonia smell nearby - our rug shampooer gets a lot of use).
So I held my stance, even as she let me put her in the crate and cried only softly on the way to the spay/neuter clinic. If she was going to hang around, we were at least going to limit it to just one. The others from Merlin's original pack outside have dwindled along with the feedings, as I've been limiting it to just her in hopes that the others would find food elsewhere. Plus the other people living in the house - the ones that spend a lot of time feeding and watching wild birds outside their windows - they aren't too keen on the smattering of feathers that keep popping up.
But this six month old kitten turned out to have some surprises. When I dropped her off for surgery, I asked them to look at an abscess I thought I felt on her tummy - and also to check for worms since her belly was getting distended. It turns out this 'kitten' is about 3-4 years old, according to her teeth, and she had been very pregnant. No abscess - just milk. I felt bad for her litter, although likely because of how small she is, she wouldn't have been able to deliver them. She is literally the smallest cat I've ever seen.
For two days, she has sat quietly in the crate in the corner of the living room. When I check on her, she will purr and sit on my lap while I change out her food and litter, then let me place her back when I'm ready. For anyone who's had to crate a cat before - especially a half 'wild' one, this is beyond amazing. She doesn't cry or whine, content to rest and watch us during the day. And anytime we let her out, she just hops around our lap or nearby and never darts away or causes trouble. Even when Merlin popped her on the forehead with a jealous paw, she just purred back at him, never flinching.
And so against all my protests, both internal and external, she is sneaking her way indoors. She has waited patiently for this moment, and is playing her cards perfectly. For the first time, we may have a cat that the children can actually pet and play with. The other two allow the boys to co-exist in 'their' room, but though they are snuggly with Mike and I, they aren't too keen on the franticness that a child's love can turn into. You have to know where on their body they like pets, and where they absolutely don't.
So for this little Princess - for all of us - a new journey begins.
And my Dad, I'm sure, is somewhere snickering into the Universe at the irony of life.
