Kitty

I held the teeniest, tiniest kitten this morning. I was at the pet store and a lady was loading four kittens into a kennel to take them for their vet check. Two were black, two were orange. I asked if I could hold one and when I peeked in, I chose the one that was staring me down the hardest. He was orange and had the fluffed up, newborn hair of a kit truly in need of a mama (someone had brought them in way too early, had wrenched them away from their mommy at only four weeks - shame on them!) It took a lot of self-control for me not to lick that fur into submission (not really, but that's kind of a cute, yet, disgusting visual, isn't it?)

This baby clung to my shirt with his bitty claws that felt no fiercer than the slightest pinprick. I held his bottom half in one hand while I stroked his fragile head with the other. If it wasn't a mean thing to do, and if it wouldn't have gone against the whole purpose of having kittens in the world in the first place, I would have eaten up this little guy, he was so irresistible. (And, after all, I am now permanently wearing the bone of a cow, so what's the harm in a little cat, too?) Ah, but that's sick - I think petting and loving will suffice.

Later this month I embark on my journey of volunteer work at the David R. Lee Animal Shelter in Chicago. I am doing this as part of my school "externship" which uses experiential learning to prove competence in an area of learning. (If that made no sense, don't worry - it's taken me two years of being at my school to understand how it works).

So, and this warning goes out mainly to my husband and anyone else who finds a sudden inclination or urge to clean out our litter boxes: be prepared. The Wrobel house may be even more cat-ridden by the end of this month!