Two weeks ago I talked to a woman who wanted to know if my cat Summer could have been pregnant. I told her no, that was quite impossible because she was 13 years old and spayed. End of story? Not quite.
The mother cat, aka not-Summer, abandoned her six kittens at the woman’s house so she (Kelly) had been bottle feeding them and called me again last week to see if I might like one. She was going out of town and hod no other option but to drop them off at the pound, and she worried they wouldn’t make it (they’re about three weeks old). So I stopped by her house on the way home from work.
I talked to Kelly – it turns out she had lived in MY house a few years ago (owner #2). What could I do – this was fate. So I took a kitten (or four) home.
The little white one will only take kitten formula from a bottle, while the rest of them have figured out how to climb in the bowl, then lick the stuff off their paws. My son’s already named one – Crackhead. I haven’t given up on Summer, but she is gonna be PISSED if she comes home to see four bottle-drinking, mewing fur balls in her house and kitty litter. And I? Have resigned myself to being that crazy cat lady on the corner.