Baby Kitteh

For a couple years, Turtle has been lobbying to adopt another cat. It pains her to know that so many unwanted animals are euthanized at shelters every day and would gladly adopt them all – but she's willing to settle for one. The rationalizations justifications are numerous but include wanting to make sure Furry Dependant #2 has someone to play with when our 14-year-old Furry Dependant #2 is no longer with us.

Ever the wet blanket pragmatist, I countered with logical well-reasoned points supporting my belief that we should hold at two furry dependants. For example, I argued that there was a one-to-one ratio of cats to favorite people, and if we added another someone would always be left out. I referred to this as the "musical laps" argument, which gained exactly zero traction. I also expressed my concern that we'd start seeing all sorts of bad behavior and discord if the established cats decided they just didn't like the new one. Turtle countered with the succinct and undebatable “No. They won't.”

Eventually, one of the neighbors found a kitten stowed away on the engine block of his car and immediately thought of Turtle. A short time later, he arrived with his wife and daughter and a very tiny kitten in a crate. A very tiny, adorable, energetic kitten with a pink nose and needle sharp claws.

Baby Kitteh

Initially, the other two cats wouldn't have anything to do with her. They scuttled off to the nether regions of bed and sofa – those dark domains of refuge typically reserve for dust bunnies and storage boxes full of Christmas present wrapping supplies. It went on that way for about a week, which was mostly fine because Baby Kitteh (we didn't give her a name right away, because Turtle said we were only evaluating her for adoption) was constantly on the move and took up most of our attention.

By the second week, the baby was climbing everything. Turtle's legs looked like she had been dragged through a briar patch, and my leather recliner was scratched and snagged. Domestic tranquility was a distant memory, and the walls frequently rang with anguished shrieks as the baby leapt from floor to leg and scrambled up a back or chest to hang off shoulder or neck. Hydrogen peroxide and liquid bandage were the order of the day. I quickly discovered that the work of scooping the litter for three cats instead of two is somehow doubled, as opposed to the 33.3% increase that a logical person might expect.

Meanwhile, the two older cats had stopped ignoring the newcomer and, after considerable hissing and growling, a sort of equilibrium was reached. The middle child took to hiding in Turtle's closet, and the eldest wearily allowed the baby to trail around the house after him, biting his tail and trilling at him. Before long, he forgot that he was the cat equivalent of a 73-year-old and enthusiastically romped and wrestled with the baby. That's how he hurt his back, pinching a nerve and partially paralyzing one of his rear legs. So now, when he goes in the litter box, he always steps in his wet spot and then tracks muddy footprints from the utility room, across the kitchen, and beyond. The middle child has to nervously sneak into the litter box when she thinks the baby isn't around. This is because the baby likes to stand on top of the covered box and hang her head over the edge to peer inside like some voyeuristic gargoyle.

By the fourth week, we were calling the baby “Bailey”, and despite Turtle's several phone calls and emails suggesting to the neighbor that the trial period wasn't working out, it appeared she was staying. That's probably okay. She has to be locked up in her crate each night, or we'd never get any sleep; but she's a forgiving, affectionate little thing and only wants to rub, rub, rub when we let her out in the morning. The front claws are going to have to go when she's old enough, along with her girl parts, but if we can all survive that long, I think it's all going to work out.

But that's it. Three is the limit. Seriously.