I decided at 8:06 p.m. on June 13 that if this week’s blog post is to exist, it shall be written by a cat.
I’ll take credit for only a tiny percentage of the words this week—the whiny ones here at the beginning.
Because my entire system is the kind of tired that sleep won’t cure, and no amount of Couch Lady sessions or self-care can address. I believe only time, resolution of circumstances out of my control, and forced repetition of joyous nonsense with no strings attached can prove to my nervous system that the saber tooth is not on the hunt and we can “stand down.”
So, without further ado, or whining, I’m handing you off to Stella Marie, our fluffy rescue cat of six years…
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I am aghast.
Dare I say, outraged. Much like Princess Donut in that apocalyptic dungeon with Carl from Mother’s audiobook.*
I will repeat.
I am aghast. Outraged. Jaw-dropped and stink-faced, even.
Mother became “BiBi” to what she calls a Tiny Grand Girl, sending the entire household into a tizzy and upsetting the delicate balance previously enjoyed.
And since the arrival of this oversized hairless kitten, my parenting advice has gone unheeded.
Malachi and Amara are of no use. Malachi is delicate of hearing and the screeching and caterwauling of Tiny Grand Girl sends him into hiding. Amara is only concerned with Amara and the timing of Tuna Feast in Gravy. Which, by the way, has been horribly late of late.
Keeping Mother in line falls squarely on my whiskers. And let me tell you, I raised an entire litter alone under a shed with a bullet in my back before the people at the cat rescue found me.
I know whereof I meow.
Even under dire circumstances, I kept track of all six! of my children. They were fed, cleaned, and accounted for.
This solitary hairless kitten in question disappears from Mother’s care all willy-nilly.
It’s one kitten.
One.
Not six.
And it’s very large.
I’m not sure how she keeps misplacing it.
But Mother plops the creature into an open-aired carrier, ties her down, and the carrier disappears—it’s worse than the carrier she shoves me in.
Where does the hairless kitten go? I do not know. Perhaps down the portal to the vet.
But Mother gets moody.
Then I get moody.
I spend half the night walking the hallway, looking for the hairless kitten and singing the Song of My People with my little pumpkin stuffie for comfort.
Eventually, though, the hairless kitten returns, and Mother calls herself BiBi again, and I must supervise feedings. The hairless kitten is always hungry. I lie across Mother’s legs as the Tiny Grand Girl is slung over Mother’s shoulder, and I use my tail to help do what we call... burping (my babies never needed such a thing). Once the hairless kitten erupts, feeding commences.
Or sometimes the feeding doesn’t commence and sleeping occurs, and I must curl next to the creature and ensure no harm comes. I sleep with one eye open and a paw on the little one’s leg just to be sure Mother doesn’t stuff her into a carrier.
Then comes cleaning. I watched in awe as Mother filled the tub with water that first time; I knew not what was about to happen. I’d never seen Mother perform these steps before. Malachi and Amara joined us in the bathroom to gawk. What was Mother doing?
Oh, the horror that raced through my hide as Mother put that hairless kitten into the water!
Into. The. Water.
You DO NOT put kittens in water. Hairless or not.
You give them a proper licking with your tongue. (Which I try to demonstrate on occasion, but Mother gets fussy with me.)
I wailed and cried and slammed open and shut the bathroom cabinet with my paw to get Mother’s attention. I butted her leg with my forehead. I smacked Mother with my tail. But Mother paid no attention.
Father was of no use and hard of hearing as well, as he laughed and helped Mother nearly drown that creature.
And, poor pitiful thing that she is, Tiny Grand Girl doesn’t understand the peril. She giggles and squeals, so Mother and Father keep putting her in the water every time she smells a little off.
Into. The. Water.
Then they put her in an open-topped cage for the night. A cage! Mother insists on calling it a crib. I don’t know what a crib is.
But this bed has bars. I do know what bars are.
I never put my babies in such a thing. They slept underneath me just fine, with access to the milk bar 24/7—the only bar a baby should experience.
Inevitably, the hairless kitten vanishes once again in the carrier, and we all get moody. Malachi needs his emotional cup filled after being neglected. Amara wants dinner to be on time and Father’s lap to herself, and I remain aghast.
And outraged.
I pull out my pumpkin stuffie (which I’ve kept close track of for six years), and leave it in all the places the hairless kitten has been (except in the tub—I refuse).
I do this to show Mother how easy it is to keep track of little ones. And how not to put them in the tub.
And I sing the Song of My People when the sun goes down, hoping the wisdom of the ancients will rain down on Mother’s psyche and she’ll finally understand the ins and outs of caring for a hairless kitten.
*Dungeon Crawler Carl by Matt Dinniman. The guilty pleasure, joyous nonsense read of the moment.
