I have a new member of my household. I have not come up with a way to explain how (or why) I adopted Mr. Johnny Cash (né Rigatoni) that doesn’t make me sound impulsive and slightly crazy. Maybe even crazy cat lady territory crazy. You can be the judge…
Back in July, I’d gotten a text from Chip, one of my best friends in life. He shared he’d been traveling for three weeks, had just gotten home and fed the feral cat who hung around his place waiting for her meal (ticket?). Situation normal until he goes out for a swim and comes back to discover the stray and a pile of kittens under his bed.
Most people might try to find the nearest shelter and drop the cats off. But, Chip has a soft spot for any and all little creatures so he stocks up on supplies for the new momma cat and outfits her and her babies with a temporary bed. Fast forward a week and he’s going to hit the road for another extended trip. He decides the best course of business is to offer a very generous donation to the local humane society to ensure this little family gets taken in.
I’m not sure what tickles me more – the fact that this momma cat had the street-smarts to give birth in Chip’s house knowing he’d take care of her or the fact that Chip gave an obscene donation to ensure the stray and her offspring get the five-star shelter treatment.
Since part of Chip’s and my history is that we had cared for two oddball, senior cats together, in my mind, it seemed fitting that I’d help him out with this bunch. I assure Chip that I’ll take one of the kittens when they’re old enough. Chip baits me with this birthday card and photo updates on the kittens.
Fast forward a few months and I get the call saying that the kittens are ready to be adopted. I realize a bit belatedly that I’ve not thought this idea through. I live a thousand miles away. I’ve never flown with an animal before. I need to buy kitten supplies and kitten-proof areas of my house. And, I need to do this all in the next thirty-six hours.
On Friday night, I sit down to my computer and start planning. First, make sure my little baby will not get adopted by anyone but me. The kind (and sensible) people at the humane society aren’t really clear on why this woman from another state is calling them and wants assurances that they won’t adopt out “my” kitten. They ask if I’ve met “my” kitten yet. Hmmm…I try to make my story sound normal. Pretty sure it doesn’t.
In a spurt of productivity, I book my airline tickets. First-class because well, I don’t know if the coach seats will be big enough to fit the carrier and I will not put a kitten in the belly of the plane. Add $125 ticketing fee to travel with a kitten that’s not even four pounds. Now find a pet-friendly hotel. Oh, and cancel all my weekend plans. Attempt number two to not sound crazy explaining the cat adoption story.
Two hours later, I’ve got my trip planned and head down to the local pet store. It hits me. I’ve never even met this cat. What if we don’t get along? What am I doing?