Four-Legged Surprise

Two weeks ago, as I was snuggled up in bed, Ross burst into the room, grabbed a shirt and a flashlight, then ran out the door.

I have been married to him for eighteen months now, so I rarely question his behavior.  I returned to my reading as the thunderstorm raged outside.

Fifteen minutes later, Ross returned to the bedroom.  

Holding a kitten.

"...what's that?" I asked, as what I was seeing was not properly registering in my brain.

"...it's a kitten," he replied with a lop-sided grin.

"I know that," I was able to choke out, "...but why is it in my bedroom?"

"It was crying outside the basement window.  In the rain."

The poor thing was still shrieking like a feline banshee, all grey and white and soggy and shivering.  It clung to Ross's chest for dear life as I approached it.

"We'll take him to the Humane Society first thing tomorrow," I declared as I bunched up my bright pink robe to dry it off.  I grabbed an old shoebox, stuffed in a towel, and we wrapped the screaming little thing up to keep it warm.  With nowhere else to put it, we stuck the box in the bathtub, popped open a can of tuna, added a dish of water, and turned off the light.

"Meoooowowowow!" it sobbed.

The next morning, when we went to gather up the kitten, it had not moved a single inch.  It was still wrapped up exactly as it had been eight hours before.  The tuna and the water remained untouched.  It hadn't even pooped.  I kinda felt bad for it.  It was so tiny and so scared.  Every time we approached it, it panicked and hissed.  It never moved to scratch us, but I attributed that to the fact that it was literally petrified stiff.  Poor thing.  We nicknamed it Thor, since it came to us during a thunderstorm.

 

The Humane Society opened its doors at ten on Sunday morning, so, unfortunately, we had to miss church to take the kitten in.  Once there, we learned two things: that Thor was not, in fact a girl kitty (like we had guessed), but a boy kitty, and that, due to his slight sniffle, young age (about five weeks), and weight (under two pounds), they could not guarantee that they would not euthanize him.  Apparently, if he had a respiratory infection, he would get all the other cats sick, and based on his weight, he was too little to send out for foster care.  The tech we spoke with, Erin, was very friendly but very honest about his chances for survival there as she did a once-over of the mewling kitten.

While Ross asked about a cat's general health care needs, I watched the tiny grey striped kitten panic in Erin's gentle hands.  We couldn't take this kitten home.  No way.  We were allergic.  In fact, as a surprise two weeks before, Ross had conspired with one of my co-workers and brought home an absolutely gorgeous female kitten he had named Simone.  After I got over the shock, I fell in love with her, then proceeded to have a violent asthma attack.  I even got hives on my lips where I had kissed her perfect little furry forehead.  I felt horrible when Ross had to drive all the way back to Washington to return her to her litter-mates.

Plus, we didn't know the first thing about raising a kitten.  When I was a child, we had three cats, but they all came to us as strays, and my mother was the one who took care of them.  I just pulled their tails and cried when they scratched me.  Years ago, Ross had been given a crabby old Maine Coon cat named Oliver and he despised the thing.  The feeling was mutual, as Oliver eventually stowed away in Ross's parents' van and then ran away.  To an Amish farm.  No joke.

Ross had nearly wept with joy.

So, you see, we're not cat people.

Plus, we were about the leave for vacation the following week, and we didn't know who could possibly take care of the kitten.  My dad could, of course, but his idea of "taking care" of cats generally involves shotguns and target practice.

No way would we be taking this guy home.

Ross turned to me with vibrant blue puppy-dog eyes and said, "I don't like the idea of knowing he may not make it, especially when what he has is treatable."

The kitten came home with us.

Just until we could find a "buyer", so to speak.  Another co-worker had expressed an interest in adopting a kitten, as had one of Ryan's friends.  So, regardless, the kitten would not be headed back to the shelter and, possibly, to his death.

Within a day, he was eating wet food and pooping in the litter box.  Within two days, he was very carefully exploring his surroundings, tending to hide awkwardly behind radiators and under chairs.  I kept waiting for the inevitable allergy attack, but it never came.  Ross and I were a bit more sniffly than usual, but that was it.

Within three days we had determined that we weren't getting rid of him.  A family from church, who live close to us, agreed to take care of Thor during our trip.  He was the absolute darling of the veterinary clinic just minutes (mercifully!) from my house.  Plus, the vet determined that there wasn't much wrong with him other than fleas and worms, which we had already expected.  He is due for booster shots next week.

His first bath was a traumatic experience for everyone involved.  No photographic proof exists.  It's better this way.

He has already learned how to climb stairs, perch on top of his scratching post, attack my leopard-print slippers, eat dry food (although he doesn't like it), hide behind everything with at least 1/2 inch of clearance, and chew on my toes.

My personal goal: to train Thor, the mighty Thundercat, how to eradicate the home of centipedes and stink bugs.

This will be good.