Kittens are cute. It’s just plain true. And there are three of them living in my storage shed on the patio! I haven’t seen kittens in years, not since I was a kid with cats aplenty at our house. One day at the grocery store, my mom and I counted up how many cats we’d had. Something close to 4o! Let me explain…
See, whenever we got our cats snipped — girls or boys — they would inevitably meet an untimely demise within two weeks. Maybe whatever the vet snipped was essential to outdoor survival; dodging kids on bikes or speeding cars or escaping the jaws of dogs. In any case, we stopped getting our cats fixed because it was the kiss of death for them. As a result, we always had kittens.
I must have been 12 when we got the sisters, White Sox and Two Sox. White Sox had four white stockings to go with her gray overcoat and Two Sox had, well, two. One day we hear the faint squeaks of a new litter coming from the bushes and discover White Sox’ and her three beautiful babies. Within two weeks, she was killed by dogs, her little ones left as orphans. We bought orphan milk and some droppers and were quite enjoying feeding them when one day, Two Sox — who had just birthed four kittens of her own — pounces on the wooden picnic table where we’re feeding the little ones, takes them by the back of the neck and runs off with them, one by one. Minutes later, we find her sprawled out on the patio with 7 eager mouths, each nuzzling, pushing, prying, vying for a nipple, and mama, left to endure.
The scrawny mama cat on my porch is fierce. She’s constantly beating up on Red (my spoiled indoor fluffball) when he ventures outside for a morning stroll. What a wuss! I don’t know where she’s finding food, and feel bad not adopting the whole bunch.
Who wants KITTENS?!