This little fella belongs to my Adult-ish Male Child. The poor thing was loose on the streets, begging, ill, and covered in all manner of critter-y crawlers, sure to be a snack for some wild dog or road fodder. (The cat, not the Adult-ish Male Child.)
My son called for him, and he came running. Since our three kitties are spoiled beyond belief, they “graciously” donated some beginning supplies to the rescue baby, and vet appointments were secured. (I am positive at this point, however, Amara has done a year-end inventory on her spring collection and has found it lacking… Perhaps that’s why she’s been stomping up and down the hall for two weeks, giving us the death glares.)
We discussed names. I threw out some suggestions—all girl names because, you know, the Male Child googled how to sex a cat. He was fairly certain, like 90% certain, this was a girl.
“You sure? ‘Cause every cat the Paul household has procured and named has turned out to be the opposite of what we thought. Then we have to go through the whole name-picking chaos all over again.”
“Well, I’m 80% sure.”
By the time we get to the first vet appointment, he was 75% sure it was a girl. He’d picked out a boy cat name, too, but was now 70% sure he’d keep that one in his back pocket for the next cat. This one, he was 60% sure was a girl.
The baby was pitiful. Snot and ooze and itchy. Poor thing… (The kitty again, not the Male Child.) It hung close to my son as we waited in the exam room. I think it wanted to purr, but it was just too sick to do much but cuddle.
The vet tech comes in.
“Oh… look at the poor thing. Let’s see what we’ve got here.” She flips the kitten upside down, lifts the tail… “Congratulations! It’s a boy!”
Well.
So.
Adult-ish Male Child shrugs, puts the girl kitty name in his back pocket for the next cat, and declares this guy to be Castiel. Named after a character from Supernatural.
(Side note: Adult-ish Male Child also named Amara after a character on Supernatural. Apparently, because I’ve not watched the series yet, Amara was “The Darkness.” That explains a lot — especially those death glares. So I cringed a bit when another Supernatural character name is chosen.)
On with the exam…
Mites. Fleas. Worms. Check, check and check.
Upper respiratory infection, eye infection, malnourishment. Check, check and check.
Wormer, ear drops, eye drops, antibiotics… Yup. Yup. Cha-ching.
I warned my son that since the kitten was so sick he’d not really “met” the real Castiel yet. It’d be a while before he could see the cat’s true personality.
Fast-forward a few weeks, and Cass “showed up.” He started playing, gaining weight, and generally being a total terror on four paws. Eats, poops, plays and plays, and rarely sleeps. And during this time, I was especially glad neither Cass nor the Adult-ish Male child lives with us.
Cass would come for visits, stopping at our house for a litter box break before heading to the vet. He’s like the worst two-year-old ever. Touching everything. Never stopping. Caring not that someone wants to talk to him or pet him or even get a good look at his face. He. Never. Stops.
My three cats are miffed when he visits. They watch him from a distance, hiss a little. Spit a little. Glare at me like, “This rotten cousin keeps touching our things. We don’t even play with our feathery-flamingo-on-a-string—it’s strictly for decoration.”
Amara—The Darkness—realized he is the recipient of her missing springs and hates him with a raw, raging passion.
The photos above are for one of his follow-up visits for vaccines. The first pic shows happy-go-lucky Cass. Curious, playful.
Then the vet comes in and says he’s old enough and healthy enough. “It’s time to discuss neutering.”
The second pic shows Cass when he gets the news that his life will be forever, uh, altered.
And the third. Poor baby. He realizes he’s just a wee little kitten and powerless to stop the impending doom of the vet’s scalpel.
I remember the second day of 2021 when our collective countenances were aligned to the first photo.
Happy, curious, peeking around the corner at what’s to come.
I remember January 6 of 2021, too. Yeah… Snip, snip. And the hits kept coming for folks across the globe—all year long.
For our family, the world chaos was coupled with more snip-snip events, a few check-check-and-check events, and a half dozen or so, yup-yup cha-ching moments.
Time to crawl into my bitty kitty carrier and pout, ‘cause there’s nothing I can do about any of it. Powerless.
As I write this, it’s the second day of 2022. I’m aligned once again with that first photo’s emotion. “Let’s see where this new start goes…” I’ve set some new schedules for writing and the day job juggle.
Little Miss Muse is psyched out of her lavender-loving mind. The story ideas are pouring out of her faster than my fingers can type them down on the to-do list.
(Little Miss Muse also likes it when Cass comes for a visit. Their energy levels are a match made in heaven. Never stopping. Mess-making. Constant motion. Never sleeping. Cass and Little Miss are soul mates. At least until Cass’s life is forever, uh, altered.)
I’m feeling better since New Doc Guy has adjusted some things. I’ve set some personal health milestones for 2022, and with the help of New Doc Guy (and a few attitude adjustments from the Back Guy), I’m looking forward to more progress.
I’ve promised Adult-ish Male Child that I will complete Supernatural this year. That’s a lot of ghostbusting, but alas. He’s been on my case for years, and I can’t seem to get out of Season 1. He promises things get better.
We discussed how to do more of those “Happy on Purpose” moments in 2022.
Here’s to 2022 and all the progress and forward momentum it can bring. Praying/hoping/wishing any and all snip-snip events remain at bay, for alas. We are just wee little humans with little control over anyone else’s scalpels.
